


Boys in Barbados

by CumberCoterie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Barbados, Beach Sex, Crime, Falling In Love, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Rum, Shameless Smut, Walks On The Beach, beach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1561574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCoterie/pseuds/CumberCoterie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft asks John for his help in getting Sherlock to take on a case in Barbados. Deception, flirting, deduction, and smut ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which John Finally Gets His Tea, Plus a Visit from Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> CumberCoterie is a small group of women who love Benedict Cumberbatch, Sherlock, Johnlock, and fan fiction. Two of us are tag-team writing Boys in Barbados, and although we know where the plot is going, we usually have no idea what the next person is going to write and leave us with until we've read it. When we started we were each writing sections as short as sentences and paragraphs, but we quickly worked up to writing entire chapters at at a time. We've currently written about nine chapters of this, and probably have that many more to go. It's been great fun, and we hope you enjoy it!

Sherlock tosses the bag of eyeballs on the kitchen table and rummages through the drawers until he finds what he’s looking for - a nutcracker.  Nutcracker procured, he grabs an eyeball and gingerly places it in the nutcracker. The eyeball, being rather slippery, falls out of the nutcracker, rolls along and off the table, and across the kitchen floor.

John, who has just ambled half-awake into the kitchen for a cup of tea, pauses to stretch, looks down at his feet, and utters a small shriek when he finds a single, brown, lidless eye gazing up at him. 

"Goddammit, Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you - no body parts before nine o’clock!” He nudges at the eyeball with his toe and watches it roll back toward Sherlock, who stops it before it disappears under the oven.

"John," his flatmate growls with impatience, “Science cannot wait for you to wake up."

"Bloody hell it can. You could at least wait to start carving up random body parts until I've made a proper cup of tea."

Tired of having this conversation every day, John heads back upstairs to pull on some jeans and a jumper, then returns to the kitchen, grabs his keys and wallet, and walks out of the flat muttering obscenities about eyeballs and Sherlock under his breath.

"Don't forget to pick up milk!" Sherlock shouts after him, turning back to his bag of eyeballs. He considers John's tantrum for approximately half a second before dismissing it from his mind, and won't think about John again until he returns to the flat later in the day, hopefully with the milk.

John, not for the first nor last time, wonders what compels him to cater to Sherlock's demands. He's still muttering under his breath when he runs full stop into Mycroft, who's looking rather put out. John grumbles under his breath, beginning to realize he's unlikely to ever get his cup of tea. Mycroft stands directly in front of John, not letting him pass, his umbrella resting threateningly on his shoulder. "And where are you off to in such a hurry this morning, John?"

John glares at the pompous man and practically hisses, "I don't see how that's any of your concern."

Mycroft smirks and leans over to open the door to the backseat of his car, "Come come John. You know I am only concerned about my brother, and as you are the closest thing my brother has to a friend, what you're about is very much my concern. Shall we, then?"

John lets out a frustrated sigh and climbs into the backseat of the car. Anthea is at the far end, tapping furiously on her phone. Mycroft climbs in after John and the car pulls away slowly from the curb.

"Well then, what is it? Cut to the chase, because if I don't get some bloody tea soon, I'm going to kill someone. Probably your brother."

Mycroft smirks, then says, "John, I have a case of sorts for you, a project. It involves my brother, and I have a feeling you will be very, very interested in what I have to say.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, feeling a headache fingering its way along his forehead. Lack of tea? No, more likely from dealing with Sherlock and his brother. What was it with the Holmes brothers and their penchant for the bizarre and overly dramatic anyway? John sighs a deep sigh of resignation. He opens his eyes, glaring at Mycroft, and says through clenched teeth, "On with it then Mycroft, and you better make sure whatever the project is, it involves me getting a hot cup of tea."

Mycroft reaches into his pocket and pulls out a leather bound travel portfolio, reflects quietly for a moment, then tosses it onto John's lap.

"Do I even want to know what's in here?" he says, glancing at the thick packet.

"Oh, I think you'll be quite pleased," Mycroft answers. With a quick tap on the driver's partition the car pulls over, John's door opens, and Mycroft bids him farewell. John grumbles something about 'hell' under his breath, and climbs out of the car. He was in front of 221B Baker St, and he still didn't have his tea.

He peers up at the windows of his flat, gaze falling to the door. He knows that if he goes in now Sherlock will immediately deduce that John's been with Mycroft and will more than likely destroy the travel portfolio with unabashed fanfare. Not willing to give Sherlock ammunition to gloat, John bows to his curiosity - damn his curiosity - flags a cab, and asks the cabbie to drive him to a small cafe twenty minutes away in an effort to 1) avoid Sherlock 2) get his tea 3) take a look at Mycroft’s travel portfolio. John leans back into the seat and closes his eyes just as his phone rings.

"What did he want?"

"What did who want?"

"You know who. What did he say to you?"

"For the love of god, Sherlock, how do you even know about this?"

"I know how my brother's mind works, John, and have been expecting something like this to happen. Plus,” he says as an afterthought, “I saw his car drop you off."

"I'm hanging up now, Sherlock. I'm getting my tea, and I'll be home later." John ends the call just as the taxi stops in front of the cafe. He tosses some bills into the front seat, thanks the driver, and steps out.

It was just starting to drizzle, a misty, grey, London rain, and the cafe was warm and inviting inside. He ordered his much-anticipated cup of tea and a scone, then spread out the travel portfolio on the table in front of him. In it were two first-class, round trip tickets to Barbados. There was also a short summary of an unsolved rum tycoon’s murder, some photographs, and a thick envelope of money. John leafed through it quickly and guessed that there must be at least ten thousand quid there. Why, he wondered, as the waitress set down his order, hadn't Mycroft gone directly to Sherlock?

Sipping his tea, finally, John slowly started sorting out the paperwork in the hopes of finding some clue as to why Mycroft came to him first. He was sifting through the photographs when a small piece of letterhead stationery slid out of the pile and gently fluttered to the floor. Embossed at the top of the linen pressed sheet were the initials “MH” and John chuckled – good god, even Mycroft’s note paper was uptight and snotty. Another sip of tea and a couple bites of his scone and John started to read.

“John: It is of the utmost importance that you not approach Sherlock about this matter until you both are on the flight Barbados. He will find a way out of going if given the opportunity. The murdered young man was from a quite prominent family– read the file and you’ll get the gist. My people are keeping it all very hush hush to avoid the media’s involvement. Get Sherlock to Barbados, John. Make sure he’s on that plane. And for god’s sake make sure he is on his best behavior. I’ll be in touch. Your plane leaves in two hours. MH”

Reading the last line John distractedly sets his teacup on the edge of the table, where it bounces to the floor and shatters with quite a loud clatter. John clumsily jumps up with an “Oh!” and frantically starts gathering up the papers and shoving them back into the dossier.  Just as a waitress appears to finish sweeping up the shattered cup and John manages to put the packet in his coat pocket the bell above the café door tinkles. John looks up from wiping the tea off his trousers to find Sherlock’s blue-grey eyes scanning the café.

"The blueberry scones are excellent, Sherlock, I highly recommend them."

"Not in the mood, John. If you have even half a brain in that dense skull of yours you'll tell me what Mycroft is up to, and you'll tell me now. Do not even think about lying to me. I'm too smart for that, and you know it."

John knows Sherlock is right. He won't be able to spin a believable tale fast enough to fool the suspicious detective, but he also knows that Sherlock won't expect what John is about to do next. He needs to act quickly.

"Fine, skip breakfast. I'll tell you everything, but I have to stop at the clinic first and reassign some of my patients. I'll be out of commission for a while."

"John..."

"Look, Sherlock, if you want to know what's going on you need to shift that bony arse of yours and come with me to the clinic. Let me take care of business, then we'll have a good chat."

The two men step outside, where the slight drizzle has turned into a downpour. Sherlock flags a nearby taxi and they climb in as John gives the driver the address of the clinic. It's a short drive and John doesn't offer Sherlock any information whatsoever as they make their way through the traffic.

Once at the clinic John tells Sherlock to sit and wait in his office while he clears things with Sarah. Instead of going to Sarah's office, however, John sneaks into the treatment room and rummages through a few cabinets until he finds what he needs. There is absolutely no tremor in his hand as he goes back to his office, walks directly to where Sherlock is sitting, furiously typing a text, and plunges the needle into his neck. Sherlock slumps over immediately, not even time for a look of shock to cross his face.

John pulls his own phone out of his pocket and types, "We're ready. Send the car."


	2. The Flight to Barbados and a Wet Towel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and a drugged Sherlock are on a plane headed to Barbados.

Mycroft’s car – thankfully empty of Mycroft – glides to the curb in front of the clinic a few minutes later. John enlists the help of the driver to deposit Sherlock rather unceremoniously into the backseat. John’s not sure he’s ever seen Sherlock look so relaxed. As the car speeds toward Gatwick John tries to sort out what he will tell Sherlock when he wakes in a few hours. Undoubtedly he’ll be in a very very foul mood.

John’s phone rings. As expected, it’s Mycroft.

“Well done, John, well done. Quite resourceful you are. How is he?”

“Drugged into oblivion Mycroft, and frankly I’m not keen to be in an enclosed aircraft with him when he wakes up in about four hours, en-route to Barbados. “

“Well John, unavoidable I suppose, and frankly, better you than me,” Mycroft chuckles. “Just keep him drugged if you must. Frankly you might be doing everyone on the plane a favor if you keep him knocked out and quiet for the eight and a half hour flight, eh?”

John clears his throat, “Well, clearly no love lost between you two. Brotherly love and all that jazz. Honestly,” John sighs in frustration and exasperation. “So once we arrive there, provided Sherlock doesn’t have a raging fit that puts the plane and everyone aboard in the ocean, where do we start?”

“You’ll be met at the airport by a car that will take you The House hotel in St. James Parish.  I’ve taken the liberty of providing you both with the necessary clothes and such. You’ll find a laptop on the desk in your suite. All the pertinent information is on the sole file folder saved on the desktop. Start there it should be enough to whet Sherlock’s appetite for information.”

“You’re assuming Sherlock won’t throw the laptop into the nearest pool or body of water, then? He’s going to be livid, Mycroft. “

“Dinner reservations are for 8:00 o'clock. Don’t be late and make sure Sherlock is dressed appropriately. One of my associates will meet you and give you further instructions for your time on the island. His name is Reginald Marsh. You have a week John. Make it count.”

John stares at his phone. Was he the only man of a certain age with a normal name? The car slows to a stop in front of the airport terminal and there is a wheelchair waiting at the curb. Clearly Mycroft had planned ahead. John and the driver hoist Sherlock into the chair and quickly head to the gate. John hands their tickets to the agent who quickly waves them through. The driver motions to John to take over wheeling Sherlock to the plane and John quickly wheels Sherlock down the ramp.

“Never thought I’d see the day when you were so quiet, well-behaved and willing to follow directions Sherlock,” John says with a small laugh.

Two flight attends help deposit Sherlock in his seat near the window and John settles in the seat to Sherlock’s left. As the plane’s doors are locked and the engines are geared up John turns and looks at Sherlock, who’s due to wake in about three hours, and shakes his head.  Well, he thinks, may as well enjoy the next couple hours and he signals to the flight attendant.  

“Tea please. And a scotch on the rocks.”

 

###

 

Sherlock stirs, briefly, about two hours into the flight. John is reading The Times and nursing his second Glenfiddich when he feels the unusually still form beside him stir. This, he thinks, must be the longest the detective has slept in over a week. Pity it can't last.

"John? Where's is we?" Sherlock groans, lurching around in his seat and pressing his face against John's shoulder.

"Steady there, sailor, take it easy." John folds the paper into thirds and sets it down on his tray, then turns toward his seat mate. "You okay?"

Sherlock looks up at him through heavily-lidded eyes, trying desperately to focus. He puts a finger to his lower lip and pulls at it.

"Somefing... somefing... wrong.. wif my mouf," he stammers. Then he puts a finger to John's lower lip and pulls at it, asking, "Your mouf okay, Dr. Wafson?"

John removes Sherlock's hand from his mouth and pats it gently. "Yes, I'm fine. You're fine. Go back to sleep. I'll explain later."

Sherlock puts a hand to his temple and squints his eyes, his forehead a field of furrows. "No no no," John says sternly, "no mind palace right now. Go to sleep."

Sherlock looks at John again and attempts to jab him in the eye. "John, your eyes... I've never noticed before... they are soooo..."

John looks sharply at Sherlock. What on earth is this git on about now? "Yes? What about my eyes, Sherlock?"

"They're so very, very... eyebally." And with that, Sherlock slumps down against John's arm again, and is out.

 

###

 

An hour or two later John feels as though he’s being stared at and slowly opens his eyes. The image is bit squidgy around the edges but he gets a glimpse of alabaster skin, a crown of thick dark ringlets and perfectly formed lips – that frankly could do with a spot of color, but he wasn’t about to beleaguer the point. He clears his throat and licks his dry lips before speaking.

“Well hello, gorgeous.”

A silky voice purrs back brusquely, “You’ve got some explaining to do John. You know that right? We’re going to have this out right now.”

John nods quickly and is promptly smacked with a warm wet towel in the face. Surprised, he attempts to playfully grab said towel only to find his hands and feet bound.

“Oh, I see, playing a bit of a kinky game are we? Ok, yes, I’ve been a very bad boy.  Downright dastardly in fact. Please continue.” John braces gleefully for the next onslaught.  Pulse racing a bit now he realizes he hasn’t had this much fun in ages.  He’s very curious what will transpire next.

“For Christ sake, John, this isn’t some sort of perverted sex dream. That is so juvenile and frankly less than creative on your part. Wake-up.”

John’s mind races. What in fucks sake is going on? He’s smacked again with the wet towel.

He snaps his eyes open and finds Sherlock fully awake and standing in front of him looking quite exasperated. In his left hand is a wet towel – presumably the one that smacked John just a few moments ago. John is understandably a bit embarrassed and in an attempt to shake off last remnants of the dream he moves to adjust his posture and finds that his hands and feet are tied to his seat.

Pulse still not slowing down – damn it – John growls under his breath.

“Untie me Sherlock. Now. I’m not in the mood for your games.”

“Really John? Are you quite sure? You seemed rather in the mood just a few seconds ago.  Perhaps I misread you?”

“Jesus Sherlock – I was having a dream, nothing more. Why must you always read so much into everything?”

“Oh, but John, it is what I do best isn’t it? Racing pulse, heightened color in your cheeks and neck, breathing with a slight hitch on the intake and exhale – shall I continue?”

“No!”

“Quite the active imagination John. It was your imagination we’re dealing with right? Anyway, I digress, though that was far more insightful than I had anticipated. Indeed, very insightful. So, back to the situation at hand --  care to enlighten me as to what the hell I’m doing on a plane bound for Barbados?”

John continues to strain against the strictures, but Sherlock has him tightly bound. He glances around him and realizes with a shock that the plane is empty, and he and Sherlock are the only two remaining passengers. Even the flight attendants have vanished. Sherlock registers the realization on John's face and states, "Two can play at your little game, John." A quick, fake smile, and his face is all seriousness again.

"What are you talking about?"

"When I woke up and realized what had happened, I snuck a little something into your scotch. You thought I was snuggling your arm, didn't you? God, your little brain is so tedious. And now we're here, in Barbados."

John looks down to see if the travel portfolio is still in his inner suit pocket, but he can tell by how the jacket fits that it's gone. He looks up and sees Sherlock tapping it against his temple, a small smirk playing at his lips. "Would you care to explain, or is it all in here?"

"Have you read it?"

"Oh course I've read it, you twit."

"Well then I'm not sure what else I can say to elaborate."

"What else did Mycroft tell you? I want to know every... single... word... he said."

"Untie me and I might consider it."

"You don't have much leverage here, John. Please don't toy with me."

John sighs, knowing when he's been defeated. "Would you maybe hit me with the wet towel again? That was sort of fun."

Finally, Sherlock laughs, his whole face falling into the familiar grin. He shakes his head and reaches down to untie John's hands.

"Well, we are in the Caribbean, aren't we?" he jokes, kneeling at John's feet as he undoes the knots around his ankles. "Who knows what might happen if you continue to misbehave?" He peers up at John from under those ridiculously long lashes, and John feels the heat rising in his face. John clears his throat and tries to sound level-headed and unaffected by Sherlock's uncharacteristic flirting. Maybe the sedatives are affecting him?

"Look, Sherlock, I know I have some explaining to do. By now you know just about everything I do. Let's go to the hotel and look at the file that Mycroft left, and then figure out what to do from there, okay? Just promise me that you aren't going to fly home, or run away, or otherwise sabotage this, yeah? I don't usually take Mycroft seriously, but this time I think we should listen to him."

Sherlock considers what John has said and nods in agreement. "Fine. I'll agree to go to the hotel and read the file if you agree to answer any questions I have about anything my idiot brother said to you. And we'll go from there. Yes?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Sherlock has a mischievous look about his eyes smirks as he playfully smacks John one more time with the towel.

“Whatever was that for?”

“Good measure. Must keep you on your toes Dr. Watson – lest you get bored. Come on, I’m sure we’re running late.”

Sherlock turns and tosses the towel on his seat, pockets the packet from Mycroft in his coat pocket, and starts to siddle past John, then pauses to face him. There cannot be more than an inch between them. John, who still hasn’t regained his composure from the final towel smack quickly glances down as he feels his cheeks and face flushing.

“Always providing me with such interesting data John.” Sherlock says just under his breath. He reaches out and runs a finger from John’s flush cheek down to his collar, “You will be on your best behavior now, yes?”

Sherlock turns, without missing a beat, moves into the aisle and walks quickly to the ramp leading off the plan. John hesitates for a just a second, takes a deep breath to steady himself and follows Sherlock. What the hell is Sherlock playing at, anyway?

“Come on John, honestly, we’ve got places to go and mysteries to solve and my brother to discuss. Tut tut.”

 

 


	3. The House Hotel and John's Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John check into The House Hotel and suss out their accommodations. John has a nightmare.

It's delightfully warm on the island and both men find themselves stripping off their useless coats and suit jackets, then rolling up their sleeves and unbuttoning a few more shirt buttons. John finds himself immensely grateful that Mycroft thought to send ahead some appropriate clothes, because there's no way his London wardrobe would work here, and Sherlock's Belstaff trench coat would be absolutely laughable. They make their way to the taxi queue, and as they wait John glances over at Sherlock, who is absentmindedly fanning himself with a tourist pamphlet from the Mount Gay Rum Plantation.

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"Are you going to be this obtuse the entire week, or just when I ask you a question?"

"Touchy touchy, John. The heat must be getting to you." Sherlock waves the brochure in front of John's face and continues. "Mount Gay Rum. This is where our victim, Mr. Whitlock, lived and worked, and where his family has lived and worked for the last two hundred and fifty years. I suggest we add it to our list of sites to visit while we're here."

"How the hell did you know that?"

Sherlock gives him a look that says, "Oh please," but explains, "The family name and their history is on this brochure. You never know what you'll learn from perusing the local tourist information."

"Ah, I see. So do you know them, then?" John asks as a dilapidated excuse of a taxi pulls up to the taxi queue. The men climb in and John instructs the driver to take them to The House Hotel in Bridgetown. A cool breeze flows through the open windows and both men lean back against the red vinyl of the seats, enjoying the open air.

"I know the name, but little more than that," Sherlock answers, looking out his window as the car picks up speed on Tom Adams Highway. "I expect, however, to know much more in the next few days."

They ride the rest of the way in silence, each lost in their own thoughts about what may lay in store, and the half-hour trip passes quickly. When the taxi pulls up in front of the hotel John lets out an appreciative whistle.

"I must say, I was not expecting this. This is a world class resort, not a hotel."

"Nothing is too good for my brother, John, you should know that by now."

"But still..." John murmurs, taking in the whitewashed walls, palm trees, and wooden bridge leading to the entrance. Inside they are greeted by reception, who seems to know exactly who they are.

"Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson, welcome to The House. We cannot tell you how pleased we are that you have arrived," purrs a young woman with sleeked back hair and jet black eyes. She is wearing a red sarong that leaves little to the imagination, and John finds himself thinking of that damn wet towel. The woman -- her name tag says Amelia -- pushes a key card across the polished mahogany counter and smiles.

"Everything you should require is already in your suite. You have the best accommodations on the property, and I do hope you'll enjoy the views of the bay. Dinner is at eight, and breakfast is between six and ten o'clock in the morning. Dial double zero if you need anything at all. Anything."

Most of this little presentation is directed at Sherlock, who seems absolutely oblivious to the young woman's flirting. John looks from her back to Sherlock, and shakes his head in bemusement. Clueless. The great detective is absolutely clueless. Sherlock turns on his heel and starts in the direction of the suite. As they walk they pass several lounges, a breathtaking pool, rows of chaise lounges, and a walkway to the beach. John puts his hand on Sherlock's arm and stops him.

"Jesus, Sherlock, I've never seen anything like this. Can we just enjoy this tonight? Have dinner, check out the beach, maybe have a drink? Can we please not chase bad guys down dimly lit alleys tonight? I'll never have another trip like this."

Sherlock looks down at John with a thoughtful on his face and says, "Why, John, of course. I'm hardly your task master."

John’s face begins to radiate heat – again.  That’s at least three times today that Sherlock has managed to utterly befuddle him and cause him to flush. This was getting downright ridiculous and monumentally embarrassing.

Having walked a few steps ahead and realizing John is no longer keeping pace Sherlock stops, turns on his heel and says, “Really John? I can see your flush from here. Don’t make me get another towel.” He chuckles heartily, turns around, and starts to walk toward their suite.

John mutters to himself as he swiftly walks toward Sherlock, “Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. Bloody annoying git of a man.”

“Here we are. John, unlock the door.”

“Oh, I see, back to me being your errand boy. Lovely. Glad to know some things never change, Sherlock. Give me the damn key then.”

“I figured I’d ruffled your feathers enough already for one day, John. Unless of course…”

John puts his hand up and says, “Stop it Sherlock.” He swipes the card key, opens the door and gasps.

Sherlock breezes past John through the door and tosses his coat rather unceremoniously on the cream colored couch in the sitting area. Through the slider John can clearly see the pristine beach and turquoise ocean. John walks slowly into the room taking in all the luxury that surrounds him. The room is all lush cream and dark wood and just beyond the sitting area John spies two doors – he can barely make out the fixturing for the bathroom through one.  And that leaves just one other door.

“Sherlock. Are you sure we have just the one room?”

“Quite.” Sherlock is pacing about the sitting area randomly picking up and touching everything in his path. “Mycroft intends for you to babysit me as usual. Not that I need babysitting, I am a grown man after all.”

John clears his throat, but his words still come out somewhat strangled, “What do you make of the single bedroom door then?”

Sherlock laughs momentarily, an uncharacteristically hearty sort of laugh. Smiling with his whole body – John didn’t know that was something Sherlock was capable of until now.

“Why John, do you think Mycroft is setting us up? First class flight to a romantic locale, accommodations sparing no expense and so very romantic in their lavishness.” Sherlock comes up to John and gently takes John’s coat out of his hands and tosses it onto the couch. He grasps John by the shoulders and firmly turns John so he can look right into his eyes.  Sherlock’s eyes dance with mirth. “Surely Mycroft’s hoping we make it official and sleep together, don’t you think?”

John’s so caught off guard and he merely stammers unintelligible noises for couple seconds.  “But I. You. Gay. Rum. RUM. But.”

Sherlock’s face breaks into that full body smile again and he releases John’s shoulders. “You walked right into that one John. Can’t say you didn’t see that coming.”  Sherlock stalks off down the hall and flings open the bedroom door.  “See, twin beds John. I can’t roll over in the middle of the night and take advantage of you. Of course that means you can’t do likewise.”

“Sherlock you’re being a prat. I’m quite overwhelmed by all of this,” John gesticulates to the room surrounding them. “It is more than I’m accustomed to and you’re being infuriatingly obtuse and lewd. I’m also quite tired and in the need of a bit of lie down if you don’t mind. It has been quite a day. yeah?”

“Well, now that the sleeping situation is figured out John, I will leave you to it. Alone. I’ll wake you in time for dinner?”

“Fine. Just promise me you’ll stay out of trouble for the next hour or Mycroft will have my head.”

“Quite right. Wouldn’t want to piss off Mycroft. Let’s save that for tomorrow. Get your beauty rest then.”

Before John can utter any retort Sherlock firmly closes the bedroom door and flings his lanky body onto the couch. He chuckles to himself as he stares out at the ocean. He’s not watching the waves or gazing at the beach so much as replaying the afternoon in his head. He should be livid with John and Mycroft for drugging him and dragging him to Barbados of all places, especially for a boring murder. Murder can be so mundane among the well to do since it is usually to do with their money – but he’s more intrigued by his ability to quite thoroughly get under John’s skin. It is a chink in John’s armor he hadn’t seen coming and now that he’s found it he’s loathe to let it go without some more prying.

“It shall be a most intriguing week John. Most intriguing indeed,” Sherlock mutters quietly while turning the card key over and over in his hand and staring at the horizon beyond the window.

John slips out of his clothes and slides under the cool sheets of his twin bed. He's taken the one closest to the terrace, and looks out now, marveling at the staggering beauty of it. Guess I'm not in Afghanistan anymore, he thinks to himself. He's exhausted but exhilarated, still riding the high of having successfully pulled one over on Sherlock, of being away, of the luxury of this place. And, if he's honest with himself, he's a bit turned on. He attributes this to the excitement of the day, carefully avoiding memories of Sherlock sleeping against his shoulder, of being bound to the seat, of Sherlock waking him up by whipping him with that stupid wet towel. The more he tries to not think about it, though, the more aroused he gets, but damn if he's going to do anything about it with Sherlock in the next room. He stares at the waves caught in their endless cycle, and eventually falls into a dead sleep.

 

###

 

He's taken cover behind a burned out tank, and has his crosshairs trained on the sniper on the rooftop across from him. He holds steady, calls to his backup for cover, and gets ready to fire. Just as his finger increases its pressure against the cold metal he sees a shadow out of the corner of his eye, coming from the opposite direction, and feels a hand on his shoulder. He reels around but whatever it is, it's already on him, and his shout is in vain.

"John! Wake up, it's me, it's Sherlock. John, it's a dream. It's just a dream."

John is straddling these two worlds - the battle zone in Afghanistan, and this unrecognizable one, in this strange room, in this strange bed. He focuses on the man in front of him, understanding that this is his path to safety, and slowly Sherlock comes into focus. Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed, facing him, holding both John's wrists in his own hands.

"What..."

"You were shouting. I couldn't wake you up. You tried to punch me. I'm sorry, I restrained you just a bit."

They sit like that for another few seconds until Sherlock seems to realize that he can let go, and so he does. John rubs his wrists where Sherlock had grasped them, and leans back against his pillows.

"I'm sorry. So sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Are you okay now?"

"Hmm? Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just a bit unsettled. It'll pass."

Sherlock looks at John intently, as if studying him for clues, and then nods gently.

"I've been busy while you were sleeping. I've unpacked the bags Mycroft sent and looked at the file on the laptop. I can debrief you over dinner. I've also found and destroyed five of my brother's bugs, which he is no doubt having a coronary over as we speak." He smiles then, taking great pleasure is causing his older brother inconvenience, and touches John's wrist lightly. "Come on, then. If you're up for it, get out of bed, freshen up, and get dressed. I put all your things on the right side of the armoire."

“Uhm, Sherlock?”

Sherlock turns to face John with one hand on the door knob. “Yes, John?”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock bows his head slightly in acknowledgement.  “See you in a few minutes then? We’re due to dine with one of Mycroft’s cronies.”

“Yes, absolutely. Be out shortly.”

Sherlock wanders into the living room, his posture one of intensity. He runs his hand through his hair and fixes his gaze on the roiling waves beyond the beach. He can hear John open and close the armoire and he realizes that he feels a sense of relief that John is composed and out of bed. Of course he knew of the sorts of events that might have occurred when John was in Afghanistan, and knows that John has frequent nightmares about his time there, but Sherlock had never seen John dealing with those demons up close.

It was baffling the way John’s shouts made him feel. What was it? Fear? No, he knew John was merely having a nightmare. Irritation? No, he knew John had likely seen and done awful things during his time overseas and he couldn’t get irritated about that. Panic – that’s what it was, there was that slight tightness in his chest and not having a clear idea of exactly what to do to help. Hmm, not a sentiment Sherlock ran into often. He’d have to think on why that reaction rather than a more typical one of frustration or irritation, emotions Sherlock knew intimately.  

The bedroom door opens and John steps into the living room. “Well then, time to head to dinner?”

“Indeed. We’re eating downstairs on the patio. The weather is perfect for it and there is less of a chance that Mycroft will be listening in than if we dined in the dining room. Must keep him on his toes!”

Sherlock motions for John to head out the door first. As John walks past him Sherlock lightly rests his hand on John’s shoulder – just for a brief moment. He bows his head and speaks more quietly than normal, “Sure you’re okay? We can order in if you’re not…”

“I’m,” John clears his throat and refuses to meet Sherlock’s eyes, “I’m better now.  Going out will be a good,“ he pauses, “distraction.”

Sherlock moves his hand down to John’s shoulder blade and gently nudges him through the door first.

“After you Doctor Watson. I cannot wait to see who Mycroft has sent to dine with us.”


	4. Reginald and Rum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys meet Reginald and drink rum punch.

The two men head to the dining area where, as expected, the staff knows exactly who they are and usher them to the best table on the patio.  As they are following the waiter to their table both men notice a short, somewhat stout figure with his head bowed over what can only be a drink menu.

“Oh goody, this is going to be fun,” Sherlock says under his breath as they approach their seats.

“Behave, Sherlock. The less you antagonize the poor sod, the sooner we can get the information we need, and the sooner we can layout our plans for tomorrow. “

As the two men approach the table, the once hunched figure stands and proffers his hand.  He’s a lump of a man no more than five feet five inches tall, fleshy face likely due to a few too many bottles of Mount Gay rum, and a few wisps of straw colored hair artfully arranged on a head so doughy it might be squared shaped. He takes in both men with his watery blue eyes and smiles broadly. Amazingly enough the smile lights up his otherwise dull features, and while he will never be considered an attractive man by any means one feels as though they are in the presence of a cheery, engaging soul.

“Right-o chaps, right on time – surprising since Mycroft indicated you were likely to keep me waiting – jolly good to see you both. I’m Reginald Marsh.” He offers his hand to Sherlock first and shakes it. “Heard a lot about you Sherlock – a lot indeed. Quite the reputation you have for sussing things out, eh?”

He reaches out and clasps John’s hand next.  “And Doctor Watson! The yin to Sherlock’s yang and the,” he drops his voice an octave or two, “more levelheaded of the team. I read your blog, sir, quite fascinating really what you two get up to. Sit, please sit.”

Sherlock takes a seat, then leans forward and asks, “So who are you exactly Reginald? I already know of course, but I’m curious to hear you tell us and compare notes.”

“Excellent!” Reginald answers. “I'll tell you what I know about myself, and then you can tell me what I don't know!”

The man chuckles heartily, and John realizes that he really has no idea what he’s in for.

“Basically, I represent the Whitlock family, and have done for the past twenty years. My father did it before me, and his father before him. I'm a bit of a consigliere, if you will, without any of that horse head nonsense. I got my law degree at Cambridge after getting a business degree at the London School of Economics. Let me stop here for moment so we can give this fine young man our drink orders, shall we?”

They all look up at the waiter who has been loitering nearby for the last minute, and he approaches the table. “I don't mean to interrupt, gentlemen, but if you'd like to place a drink order, I'm ready.”

“What do you suggest, Reginald,” John asks, ready to relax and enjoy himself a bit.

“Well now, you're in Barbados so you have to try our national drink, Rum Punch. Of course, they only use Mt. Joy here at The House.”

“And what, pray tell, is in Rum Punch?” Sherlock enquires dryly.

“The usual good stuff. Rum, grenadine, bitters, lime juice, that sort of thing.”

“I think I'll pass. Just a sparkling water for me. I'll leave the cocktails to you and John.”

“For god's sakes, Sherlock, take a night off, enjoy yourself. You might find you actually enjoy not being a giant stick in the mud all of the time,” John fires at his friend.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, John?”

John has had enough of this new, teasing Sherlock. “Well, yes, Sherlock, as a matter of fact I am. I've had enough of you being a giant pain in my ass, and so tonight I'm going to be one in yours.”

He stops, fully realizing what he's just said, and looks down at the table. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, burning right into his head. “Anyway,” John continues to no one particular, “I'm going to try the Rum Punch.”

“Make that two,” Reginald adds.

“Make that three,” Sherlock growls, never taking his eyes off of John. “Go on, Reginald. We had just finished hearing about your illustrious education, correct?”

“Well remembered, yes. After completing my education I returned here to Barbados, and have been here ever since. I do a bit of this and that for the Whitlock family and their employees, but this is the first time we've had a murder on our hands. Sorry business, I must say.”

“I imagine so. And what can you tell us about the murder?” Sherlock asks.

“Sad affair that. Sherrinford was well liked in the community and by most of his staff. But don’t all folks say that about the departed?” Reginald finishes his rum punch with a swift chug and rather loudly puts the glass of ice down on the table. “Truth is most folks didn’t really know Reginald. Quiet type of man that was very focused on keeping the family’s name and company on the right side of prosperity.”

The waiter has quietly reappeared at the table clears his throat.  “Are you gentlemen ready to order your meals? Or shall I come back in a few minutes?”

Sherlock sighs, looks up at the waiter and rattles off in quick succession three orders – one for everyone at the table, and waves the waiter away.

“How did you know…” stutters Reginald.

“He just knows Reginald,” says John with what can only be bemusement. He does so love watching Sherlock work. “It is what he does. Brilliant as usual, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, John. Reginald, back to Sherrinford. We will hear about the murder at some point tonight, I assume?”

“Sorry mental train went a bit cutty-wumpuss on me,” Reginald chortles.  “Don’t have much of a stomach for the violent, to be frank, so I’ll make it quick.”

“Please, the quicker the better.Now would be i-deal.”  Sherlock leans forward, pyramids his fingers and stares at Reginald expectantly.

“Sherlock, for god’s sake, sheath your cutting remarks for a bit would you? Not everyone finds the glee in murder that you do. Keep your knickers on and let Reginald say his piece, his way.”

“My knickers John? Don’t worry, I have no intention of removing them on the patio. Though that would make for an interesting turn in the conversation. Drone on dear Reginald! Be a dear and wake me when he gets to the actual murder, won’t you, John?”

Sherlock leans back into his chair, shifts himself to the side, and with quite the flourish puts his arm along the back. He proceeds to finish his rum punch in two large gulps, turns to John and winks impishly. John can’t help but chuckle at Sherlock’s rakish posturing and shakes his head and sighs.

Seeing him looking so at ease, John is taken back to the moment he woke and found Sherlock gazing at him and holding his wrists. It’s a brief flash between then and now and John feels his pulse start to race. Too much rum punch he thinks, just the alcohol talking after a long day. He clears his throat and looks firmly in Reginald’s direction.

“Please do carry-on Reginald. Take your time. Ignore Sherlock. I do.”

“Right. Well, Mycroft wasn’t far off the mark about you two eh? Quite the couple, aren’t you?  All’s fair, am I right?” Reginald looks from John to Sherlock smiling like they are sharing an inside joke.

John stammers and stutters a bit and Sherlock grins quietly. He does so love watching John squirm.

“Bloody hell,” John mutters under his breath as he tosses back the rest of his drink. “You’re quite enjoying this aren’t you,” he hisses under his breath at Sherlock. Sherlock merely grins and winks at him again.  

“Where was I? Sherrinford, yes. Nasty end if you ask me. Found him in a sugar cane field cut ear to ear. No sign of the weapon until days later when it was found in his kitchen. In his knife block of all logical places. Who knows how he got to the field and his knife back in its proper place. Blade wasn’t cleaned properly so they knew it was the weapon straight away. No one knows what to make of it. Oh, look here comes our dinner!”

"Tell me more about Sherrinford's living arrangements, Mr. Marsh," Sherlock says as he waves down the waiter and signals for another round of punch. John stares at him as if he has horns growing out of his head, then turns to look at Reginald with a small shake of his head and an expectant look.

"Ah, well, he had a small cottage on the property, like the rest of the family. Parents, Sarah and James, in the main compound, with four cottages for the children. Sherrinford, Constance, and Freya, with the fourth standing empty ever since Tilda left for the States."

"And how long has she been gone?"

"Going on twelve years now."

"Ages?"

"Tilda must be forty now. Freya is thirty-eight, Constance is thirty-five, and Sherrinford was thirty-two last month."

"Busy parents," John ventures.

"Busy mum, more like it," Sherlock offers. "From what I understand Mr. Whitlock is not a constant presence on the plantation."

"Erm, no, I suppose not. He's back in Scotland frequently on business matters. But Sherrinford had grown up on the plantation, knew it inside and out. Business had never been better, thanks to some of his factory modernization ideas for improving labor relations."

"And had labor relations, as you put it, been much of a problem?" John asks in between bites of succulent, butter-dipped lobster claw. He licks the butter off his fingers and is almost positive that Sherlock is staring at him. He turns to look, but Sherlock is busy picking at his own meal, a simply grilled snapper with couscous. As usual, he's barely eaten any of it.

"Not really a problem, no," Reginald answers, "but it had been a long time since anyone had really looked at some of the more basic benefits. Sherrinford increased wages, offered incentive plans, additional vacation time, things like that."

Sherlock is chasing shadows down dead ends, and he knows it. Still, it's given him time to observe Reginald, who has devoured and practically licked clean his plate of pepperpot, and it's given him some context within which he can place the family. Plus, he thinks fondly, it's given John time to relax, enjoy a delicious meal, and partake in a few drinks. When the waiter comes with the second round of punch they pause briefly, each lost in his private thoughts.

"Mr. Marsh, I'd like to visit the plantation tomorrow. Can you make sure that I'll have access to anywhere that Sherrinford would have worked, including his cottage?"

"It's already taken care of." Reginald pulls a key card out of his breast pocket and hands it to Sherlock. This will give you access to everything you require, and they are expecting you. I'll be there as well, should you need anything or have more questions. What time shall we expect you?

"I expect we'll be there by seven. Stop whining like a school boy, John. You'll get plenty of beauty rest tonight, I'm sure. Unless, of course, you plan on being a pain in my ass until very late tonight?"

John spits punch across the table, barely missing Reginald. He turns and smiles sweetly at Sherlock, wiping his mouth and hands with his napkin. "You certainly are asking for it, aren't you?"

"Well, on that note, I shall leave you to it. I've enjoyed my meal and the company immensely, gentlemen," Reginald grunts and he pushes his rather considerable bulk away from the table and brushes crumbs off of his belly. "There's a lovely walk down by the beach, if you feel like a stroll. You can take your punch with you," he says with a wink, and then turns and exits the restaurant. John remains seated, not daring to look over at Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, seems perfectly fine, and when he says, "Shall we take that stroll, John?" there's no hint of sarcasm or innuendo in his voice. They both pick up their drinks, toss their napkins on the table, and head to the beach.


	5. The walk on the beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night time + beach+ rum = John makes a bold move and Sherlock is conflicted

It’s edging up to midnight and the weather is balmy and quiet. The sky is cloudless and filled with pinpricks of light from stars that appear to touch the ocean on the horizon. Sherlock and John are walking slowly down the path to the beach that is softly lit just until they reach the sandy beach front. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shore is the backdrop to their slow walk further away from The House, from dinner, from the murder of Sherrinford and the awkward journey to get to this pristine moonlit sandy shore.

John can feel the cares of the day wash away with each wave lapping the shore. He’s not drunk, just hovering around that lightly buzzed state where he feels immeasurably relaxed and languorous. He realizes that he’s enjoying himself for the first time in quite a while in this companionable silence walking beside Sherlock.

Both men pause when they reach the end of the path. There’s a small tall table there and in unspoken agreement, they set down their now empty glasses and begin to remove their shoes and socks and slowly walk toward the shore.

Sherlock is immeasurably pleased with the way the evening has turned out. He’s very aware of John at his side and can tell that John is incredibly relaxed and at ease. Perhaps it is the rum talking but he’s feeling especially jovial. Time for a tease he thinks -- he has so enjoyed keeping John on his toes today John’s reactions have been so unexpected and he’s enjoying prying at that chink in John’s armor.

“John.”

“Umhm.”

“Enjoying the evening?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I am. Feeling quite mellow and after today I would say it is well deserved indeed.”

John is so wrapped up in the waves and the feeling of the sand between his toes that he doesn’t notice that Sherlock, who’s walking on the shore side, has been slowing guiding him into the surf. Sherlock chuckles.

“What’s so funny, then?”

“Oh, I was just thinking John, you look quite dashing. I must say Mycroft did a bang up job of dressing you. Yes, quite easy on the eyes. That shirt is so nicely fitted and don’t get me started on the slacks.”

“What are you on about...”

Sherlock has herded John just far enough that it only takes a small shove to push John into the surf just as a small wave comes ashore. Shocked, John finds himself soaking wet up to his thighs. Sherlock whirls about the beach just a foot or so away with his head tossed back laughing. John looks up, sees Sherlock quite wrapped up in his mirth, and pauses for a second. Just enough time to witness that full body laugh, the one he got a glimpse of earlier, and he feels the blood rush to his face and his pulse speed up. Without thought to the consequences – those are washed away by the rum punch, the relaxing atmosphere and the heavy undercurrent of sexual tension John is experiencing – he bull-rushes Sherlock with a hearty ‘oof’ and both men find themselves laying in the gentle, warm surf.

Sherlock, who’s lying on his now drenched back, looks into John’s face which is now just millimeters above his. “Quite pleased with yourself, are you John?”

John is grinning from ear to ear and laughing through pursed lips. He shakes his head in affirmation. A wave washes over them and both men pause taking stock of the moment. John clears his throat breaking the silence.

Struggling to sound unaffected by the warmth he feels radiating off of Sherlock and the fact that he has found himself lying on top of the man, John manages to say, “You should have seen your face Sherlock. You were quite surprised, am I right?” John punctuates this with a nervous twang to his voice.

“I suspect, John, that in my attempt to cool you down I’ve managed to do quite the opposite. Interesting position you’ve put us in Doctor Watson. Now that you’ve all but thrown yourself at me – quite literally -- it does beg the question, what would you like me to do, with you, or perhaps to you?” The last bit Sherlock manages to whisper in John’s ear. And with that Sherlock gently nips at John's earlobe.

John, simply put, goes weak. The sensation of Sherlock's mouth against his skin has the effect of knocking the air completely out of him, and he feels temporarily unable to breathe, unable to move. Think John, he tells himself, think. It's only a few seconds before he finds himself able to act, but it feels like a small eternity, and in those few seconds he realizes that Sherlock has wedged one of his long, lanky thighs between his and is resting his fingertips on John's hips.

Aroused, confused, slightly drunk, John pushes himself up a few inches so that he can better see Sherlock's eyes. By doing so, he has inadvertently shifted the weight of his balance into his hips, which are now pressing firmly into Sherlock's. John is about to make a joke about what's in Sherlock's pocket, but then realizes that it's not actually funny. It's actually quite hot.

Looking into Sherlock's eyes tells him absolutely nothing. Sherlock's face is impassive, smooth, slightly ethereal in the wan moonlight. His eyes are clear and focused, perhaps a tiny bit amused, expectant. There is just the smallest tilt at one side of that perfect, cupid bow mouth of his. He is, John realizes, waiting for John's answer. And John's answer doesn't come from his subconscious, which has been working overtime for the last year to figure this out, or from his brain, which would tell him that this is an enormous mistake. It comes from his heart, which has been secretly holding the last puzzle piece of this bizarre friendship for what feels like a lifetime.

He leans in close and licks Sherlock's decadent lower lip, slowly, with great deliberation. Sherlock's eyes go wide, the pupil's dilating until there's only the slightest rim of blue-grey iris around them. He closes and opens his mouth once, then twice, and John is utterly beguiled by having rendered the great detective speechless. He leans down again and kisses him properly, gently tugging at his lower lip, pushing his lips open with the tip of his tongue. It's almost imperceptible, but Sherlock has moved his own tongue forward just enough to swipe against John's, and then all hell breaks loose.

With one graceful flourish Sherlock has flipped John over onto his back and pinned his wrists into the sand over his head. John's ears are filled with the sound of Sherlock's ragged breathing over the roll of the retreating tide. They are both soaking wet and shivering, although John suspects it is not from the chilling air.

“What... the... fuck...are you doing?”

“I'm answering your question, Sherlock. You asked me what I wanted you to do to me, did you not? I believe I just showed you.”

Sherlock lowers his mouth, hovering just above John's. “Are you serious? Are you bloody serious?” he pants, his rum-warm breath sweeping over John's face.

“Are you?”

“I was joking, John, for god's sakes, I was... teasing you.”

John takes another chance and nudges his hips against Sherlock's. “I don't think you were, Sherlock. I think you'd like to think that, but I don't think you were.”

“I'm not... I'm not like that, John, and you know that. I didn't really mean...I don't feel... I don't have...”

“Yes, you do, Sherlock. You may have suppressed it, you may not like it, you may be very, very afraid of it, but you are most definitely capable of feeling it, and I think you most definitely want it. Am I wrong?”

Sherlock groans and rolls off of John, who moves onto his side and presses himself up against the shivering man. He feels empowered now, emboldened by Sherlock's mixed signals. He has no doubt in his mind that he's right about Sherlock, and the clarity of the situation is exhilarating. This is almost better than drugging the idiot. No, this is definitely better than drugging the idiot. He strokes Sherlock's neck, toying with the hollow at the base of his clavicle, then dipping his finger further down his chest. He undoes the top few buttons of Sherlock's silver-grey button-down, and slides his hand under the silky material. Sherlock presses his lips together and turns his head away from John.

“Look at me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is trying desperately to regulate his breathing, and failing miserably. John lowers his free hand to Sherlock's leg, just below his hip, and presses his fingers into the soft flesh of his inner thigh. His presses his lips to Sherlock's neck now, his lips grazing his jaw, making their way to his ear.

Sherlock is up and standing, sand flying everywhere, before John can register what's happened. He walks down the beach several paces, then turns back, as if to speak, then turns and walks away again. Stops, turns, approaches, retreats. On his last approach he stops in front of John, one hand on his hip, the other raking through his mess of curls.

“John, this is madness.”

John isn't going to force the issue, he thinks to himself, he isn't going to convince Sherlock. That's Sherlock's job. It has to come from him. “Sherlock, I'm going back to the room now. I'm going to bed. You know that I'll respect whatever you want, whatever you do, no matter how stupid. Enjoy the beach.”

  
John gets up slowly and brushes the sand off of his clothes and starts to make his way back to the resort. As he get to the lowly lit pathway and the tall table he glances back and sees the moonlit figure of Sherlock pacing the surf. John can still feel where Sherlock’s fingers sat against his hip and he can feel echoes of the heat from their bodies pressed together. He bites his lips gently and sighs. He glances one more time at Sherlock. He’s got a hand in his hair and is backlit by the moon. Sherlock doesn’t even realize how desirable he is. That he’s physically gorgeous is obvious to anyone, but John has found that for all his quirks and frustrations Sherlock is also utterly brilliant. Most important, John realizes, is that Sherlock, who seems to care about no one, actually does care a great deal about John. This realization makes all the difference to John, and had compelled him to try and show Sherlock that they can be so much more to each other. He picks up his shoes and socks and makes his way into the posh resort and to their room, holding out hope that perhaps Sherlock will come to him.

  
Sherlock is a tornado of emotions, pacing the shore fretfully. One minute he’s running his hand through his hair and questioning the very core of himself, and the next feeling angry that he allowed John to kiss and touch him. John had actually propositioned him! When had he lost control of the game he was playing? When was the moment that tipped the scale out of his grasp? He gathers himself and turns to look toward the patio where John was walking. All he sees is the back of John’s figure heading up the path. Alone and quiet Sherlock sits on the sand and decides it is time to consult his mind palace for answers.

  
He sits in the quiet, waves rolling in and out in the background. He looks deeply into himself but all he finds is blank slate. What in god’s name is happening to me? He absentmindedly runs his fingers along his lower lip where John kissed him and feels a hitch in his pulse. John couldn’t be right could he? Didn’t his body react to John’s kisses and caress? He tried to deny it – from every angle – and came up empty. Sherlock stands and brushes the sand off his clothes, turns toward the resort and says, “Damn you, John Watson. How did you do it?”

  
He starts making his way up to the resort to face John. For the first time in his life he has no idea what he was going to do.


	6. Together, okay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pulls himself together and makes a decision

John re-enters their room and finds champagne, rose petals, and chocolate dipped strawberries waiting in the room. “Mycroft,” he mutters. He goes to the bedroom and sheds his wet, sand crusted clothes, then quickly rifles through the armoire and grabs a t-shirt and some shorts that look suitable for sleeping and starts cleaning up the rose petals. He’s so absorbed in his task that he doesn’t hear the door to the suite open or close when Sherlock comes in.

  
Sherlock comes in feeling uncharacteristically unsettled and very conscious of his every movement, a sense of hesitation in his movements. He quietly closes the door behind him and watches John in his task. He’s clearly unaware of Sherlock’s presence and Sherlock indulges in observing John.

  
Never has Sherlock been so emotionally close to another person. He watches John’s movements and he’s overwhelmed when he realizes that John makes him feel, really feel for the first time in his life. This man who he sees everyday has become a fundamental part of him. He, Sherlock, is somehow less if John’s not around. He’s tired. Tired of his game, tired of teasing, tired of constantly analyzing everything. He wants time to just be. To just act. He’s safe with John – he knows that to his core – it’s time to let John in.

  
Quietly Sherlock walks across the room with measure steps. He’s slowly unbuttoning his shirt as he goes and sheds it just in the doorway of the bedroom. He quietly speaks.  
“John.”

  
John jumps slightly at Sherlock’s voice. He turns and puts down the trashcan full of rose petals.  
“Sherlock, I…”

  
John doesn’t have time to utter another word before Sherlock strides across the room, reaches out and put his hands on both sides of John’s face and ever so gently presses his lips to John’s. John’s lips are warm and fit perfectly under Sherlock’s. Sherlock pulls away and moves his lips to John’s ear.

  
“I can’t promise anything at all John. Nothing. I’ve never done this. Not like this. Not with someone like you. Understand?”

  
John pulls Sherlock’s head down to his shoulder and wraps his arms around him. Sherlock looks so fragile, so very vulnerable. John feels fiercely protective of his friend and knows that the next few minutes could very well alter the course of both their lives. “I understand, Sherlock. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing, either, but we can figure it out together, okay? It’s going to be OK. We’ve been through hell and back, together, haven’t we? It’s always you, it’s always me, and that’s not going to change.”

  
Sherlock is quiet, just standing, letting John hold him. He feels that he has quite literally placed his life in John’s hands, and that whatever happens, should he crush it or cradle it, he has relinquished control.

  
“Sherlock, come here. Sit down.” John guides Sherlock to one of the beds and has him sit down. He helps Sherlock pull off what remains of his wet clothes, then finds a clean t-shirt and pair of pajama bottoms, and helps Sherlock change. He’s aware of Sherlock watching him the entire time, his face open and trusting.

  
“I’m so tired, John. I’ve never been so tired. And I’m so sorry. For everything.”

  
“What are you apologizing for? For actually being human? I don’t want to shock you, but I had figured that out a while ago. I must have learned something about observation from you after all, hmm? Lie down.”

  
Sherlock let’s John cover him up, like a child, and hears John move away from him and into the bathroom. A few minute laters he hears John moving around the suite, turning off lights and pulling shades down. Then John is by his side again, crawling into the tiny bed, pulling Sherlock to him.

“Come here,” John whispers, and Sherlock shifts and rests his head on John’s shoulder, feeling more at home here in this foreign place than he usually feels back in the kitchen at 221B Baker Street. He wraps his arms around John, clinging to him, and John strokes his hair and whispers to him in the dark. It is heaven.

  
“Sherlock, listen to me. I thought I lost you tonight on the beach. I wasn’t sure you would come back to this room, let alone back to me. But you did, and here we are. And I’m going to do whatever I can do to help you stay, if that’s what you want, too.” He’s trailing his fingers up and down Sherlock’s back, hoping that he hasn’t said too much, or not enough.

  
Sherlock looks up at him then, and puts two fingers on John’s lips. “John, you’ve turned me inside out. Together, okay?”

  
John kisses the top of Sherlock’s head, and they drift off to sleep, together.

Sherlock stirs and wakes slowly to the sound of someone puttering about the bathroom and living room. He slowly stretches and realizes he feels particularly well rested, with no evidence of any nasty after effects from all his rum punch consumption. A glance at the clock on the nightstand tells him it is 6:15am and time to get out of bed and face the day, and John.

  
Last night was one of the most unsettling nights he’d ever experienced. Somehow John had gotten thoroughly under his skin and into his head. And his heart. Together that’s what John said, they’d figure this out – whatever this was – together. He wasn’t certain what would happen, but he was sure of John and for now, that was enough.

  
Just then John walks into the room dressed in khakis, and a short sleeved polo shirt in apple green - he looks comfortable, awake and tiny bit guarded. He’s clearly worried about what happened last night. John walks to the armoire and pulls out some dark lightweight slacks and a dark grey shirt, socks, and underwear and walks to the bed where he places the clothes next to Sherlock.

  
Nervously John speaks,“Good morning, Sherlock. Hope you slept well? I went ahead and ordered up a light breakfast for you – toast, coffee and some fruit. I wanted to make sure we got to the plantation on time this morning. The weather is supposed to be balmy – hopefully the clothes…”

  
“John,” Sherlock gets up to face John and gently reaches out to hold John’s arms. “You don’t need to feel nervous about last night. Together right? One step at a time?” He gently squeezes John’s arms and sees the relief on John’s face and the change in his posture.

  
“Oh, thank goodness. Phew. Yes, Sherlock, yes, together. Better get dressed and grab a bite, we’re due at the plantations shortly – Reginald will meet us at Sherrinford’s cottage first thing.”

  
“I’ll be ready in ten minutes.” Sherlock squeezes John’s arms one last time in affirmation and heads off to shower.

  
John sighs and watches Sherlock leave the room. He smiles broadly. Baby steps he tells himself. This is new territory for him, too, and he knows that if he tries to rush things he’s likely to alienate Sherlock and that is the last thing he wants. It has taken them this long to get to this point, no need to rush things.

  
John tidies up the room and heads to the living room to grab the laptop and get ready to leave. Sherlock dashes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, gulps down some coffee, nibbles a piece of toast, eats a piece of pineapple, and grabs the paperwork.  
“Ready when you are Doctor Watson. Let’s go find out what Sherrinford was up to and who did him in. Looks like a fine day to solve a mystery.”

  
“Indeed. I called for a car and it should be waiting out front. After you, Sherlock.”

  
Both men head out of their room and to the front desk in companionable silence. There is a new air of intimacy between them – not quite palpable to outsiders – but both men can feel their new state of understanding and it seems to have put them even more at ease with one another. The tension neither was aware of has fallen away.

  
Suddenly, just short of the front desk, Sherlock quickly ducks into an alcove, pulling a surprised John in with him and up against the wall. Sherlock moves in close to John and runs his hand along the right side of John’s face, hooks his hand behind John’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss. Firm yet gentle and over ever so quickly as his lips leave John’s.

  
“Thought I should give you a proper good morning and see how it works for us. Good morning, John.” He gazes down at John with is grey-blue eyes dancing with delight at having caught John off guard.  
“Right. Yes. Definitely a proper good morning.” John clears his throat and sneaks a smile at Sherlock.

  
And with that, Sherlock smiles impishly, clearly pleased, turns on his heel and heads to the car waiting at the curb, totally oblivious to the woman at the front desk calling out a very overly cheerful “Good morning” to him. John glances at her smirks and thinks to himself, “Good luck – he’s mine,” and slides into the back of the car next to Sherlock. It eases away from the curb bound for the Mount Gay plantation.

  
John can’t help but feel like the cat who just swallowed the canary. I’m in Barbados, he thinks, with my best friend, who just happens to be the sexiest, smartest, most fascinating person on the planet. As they drive John reaches across the tan leather seat and wraps his pinky around Sherlock’s. Sherlock is looking out his window, but at John’s touch he shimmies across the seat until he’s pressed up against John. John wants to laugh out loud - Sherlock reminds him a small child who needs just the slightest encouragement - but instead he removes his hand from Sherlock’s and rests it on the man’s knee. Sherlock imitates John, putting his hand on John’s thigh, and slowly traces small circles on the khaki fabric of his shorts with his index finger.

  
“Like my shorts, do you, Sherlock?” John says, transfixed by the hand on his leg.

  
“I, em, think I like what’s in your shorts, John,” Sherlock replies, still looking out his window.

“Good to know, Sherlock. Just keep in mind that I’d like to be able to step out of this car with my humility intact, OK?”

Sherlock turns and grins at John then, and takes his hand in his. They’re still holding hands as the car pulls up to a nondescript, white building with red and yellow trim. Reginald is standing in front of the main building, talking on his mobile phone, but he ends the call and tucks the phone in his pocket as the car rolls to a stop in front of him.


	7. Look for Anything That … Makes You Look Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock investigate Sherrinford's murder, and flirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for skipping a chapter last time... it's been fixed. If you missed making out on the beach, you probably need to read chapter five. Serious smut coming in the next chapter.

“Good morning, men, good to see you again! Did you enjoy the rest of your evening at The House? I hope you were able to spend some time on the beach, it was a simply gorgeous night last night, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock shakes hands briskly with the man, ignoring his pleasantries, but John is determined to be affable and says, “It was indeed a beautiful night, Reginald, and I think I speak for Sherlock and myself when I say that we’ve never quite experienced a beach stroll like that before in our lives.”

Sherlock makes a sound like he’s coughing up a hairball, and John turns to see him standing with his hands clasped behind his back, staring with great determination at nothing in particular.

“Lovely, lovely. Where would you like to start this morning?”

This is Sherlock’s territory, and he quickly takes control of the conversation, careful not to meet John’s eye. “Why don’t you show us around, Mr. Marsh, starting with Sherrinford’s office, and then perhaps his cottage? I’d also like to see the distilleries, the distribution center, and the field where his body was found. If it’s easier you can just point us in the right direction, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“No problem at all. I have a meeting at eleven o’clock, but will take you as far as I can before then, and then send you on your way. This way, if you will.”

They follow Reginald into the main office, past cubicles of customer service, a visitor’s center filled with logo goods and samples, and a receptionist guarding a small den of enclosed offices. “Who else has offices here, Mr. Marsh?”

“These would be for the four Whitlock children, Sherlock, although of course they’re not all involved in the running of the business. Sarah and James, the elder Whitlocks, that is, have offices in a separate wing.”

Reginald swings open an unlocked door and gestures for Sherlock and John to enter. “This was Sherrinford’s office, as you can probably tell.” The office is neat and tidy, but the bookshelves are brimming over with business management books, binders stuffed with reports, and what appear to be accounting journals.

Sherlock quickly makes the rounds, opening drawers, looking behind books, studying the items on the desk, and then, finally, sits in Sherrinford’s chair.

“Can I get you both some coffee, or water?” Reginald asks.

“No, I’m ---” John starts, before Sherlock interrupts him. “Two coffees, one with a touch of milk, one with two sugars, thank you very much.” Reginald slips out of the office, and John turns to Sherlock.

“I don’t want coffee, Sherlock.”

“Yes, you do. Well, no, you don’t, but we needed to get him out of here for a minute. Follow him as far as you can, but don’t let him see you. Come back before he does.”

John shakes his head, perplexed, and wanders off in the general direction of Reginald’s footsteps. He sees the man disappear into what is clearly a staff kitchen, and then hears him speaking quietly.

“Yes, they’re here now. No, not at all. He wants to see the usual things, the cottage, the field. Yes. Yes. And how shall I postpone that, if he asks? Mmm, OK, I see. What’s that? Well I wouldn’t know, would I? Seriously? Fine, I’ll call over there and arrange it when I hang up with you. Goodbye.”

John hears a cupboard open and the clinking of coffee cups. He sneaks back to the office but doesn’t see Sherlock anywhere. He calls out for him, quietly, and hears the detective respond, “Down here.” Sherlock is lying under the desk, his magnifying loupe held inches from the plastic mat upon which the office chair is sitting.

“Anything interesting in here, Sherlock?”

“Five things. I’ll tell you later. What about you?”

“Yes, oh, and here’s our coffee now! Thank you so much, Reginald.”

Sherlock’s head pops up from under the desk, and John turns and meets Reginald’s confused expression. “He’s looking for clues, just ordinary, run-of-the-mill detective work.” He smiles, unconvincingly, then takes a sip of his coffee.

“Here you go, Sherlock, coffee, two sugars.”

“Just put it there,” Sherlock says, waving dismissively at a side table. They stay in the office for another ten minutes, Sherlock a beehive of activity, John and Reginald generally getting in the way, and then Sherlock announces, “Next.”

“Next?”

“The cottage, please.”

Reginald leads the two men out a back exit of the building, and walks them to a nearby golf cart. “It’s not that far, but this is more comfortable,” he says, panting slightly from the short walk.

“Would Sherrinford have used a cart, or walked?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh, he was quite fit, he would’ve walked.”

“Then so shall we.”

“Ah, right, OK.” Reginald puffs, removing himself from the cart. It’s not a far walk, maybe five minutes down a beautifully maintained path, mostly hidden on each side by vegetation. The path ends at a clearing of sorts, paved with cobblestones. There’s a running fountain in the middle, and set around the clearing are four modest cottages, each approximately 1,400 square feet, 40 feet from each other, and with a small, walled garden in front. Beyond the cottages they see nothing but sugar cane fields.

Reginald points to the cottage on the far right, and they walk to the front gate. Once the door is unlocked and open, Reginald excuses himself, explaining that he’ll be sitting by the fountain should they need him. Sherlock gives the man one of his fake smiles, shuts the door, and turns to John. “What happened in the kitchen?”

“He made a phone call, but it was short. He basically told the person on the other end that we were here, and that it was going well. He was asked to do something that he seemed a bit put out by, and was asked a question that he couldn’t answer. Oh, and he asked how he was to postpone something if we asked for it.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock murmurs, taking in this information, then turning to look out the front window toward the fountain. “He’s on the phone again, probably giving another report.”

“What about you? What five things did you learn in the office?”

“Ah yes, the office. One: There are no traces of the sugar cane fields in that office, none whatsoever. I’d say he didn’t make a habit of frequenting them. Two: He was having a very secretive relationship with another man, probably with the initials NRT. Three: Sherrinford was cooking the books to cover huge losses in the third and fourth quarters of last year. Four: He didn’t drink, not even his own company’s rum. Five: You have a fantastic ass.

John doesn’t even flinch. He just stares at Sherlock, one eyebrow slightly cocked. “And when did you notice that?”

“When I was lying on the floor inspecting the chair. I had a good view.”

“Well, I suppose you really are the world’s only consulting detective, so I’ll have to take your word for it. What are we looking for in here, then?” John looks around the space, unsure of where to start.

“You look in the kitchen and living room, I’ll take the bedroom and bathroom. Look for anything that … makes you look twice.”

“Like my ass?”

“Exactly.” Sherlock grins at John from under an errant curl, and moves into the bathroom.

John heads into the kitchen which is small but well-appointed, with newer appliances, glossy granite countertops, and all the accoutrements a person could need. It is immaculate, but pretty clear to even the casual observer that Sherrinford knew his way around a kitchen and probably cooked quite frequently. The grates on the gas range are clean, but clearly have seen use. The cabinets and freezer are well stocked with the sort of things one would find in the kitchen of someone who was quite fastidious about their health. John didn’t know quinoa came in so many colors or that one could buy chia seeds by the pound.

“Out of the ordinary. Out of the ordinary," he mutters under his breath as he opened cabinets, drawers and generally poked around.

He opened the fridge and was met with the odor of rotting food – clearly it hadn’t been cleared out yet.  Of particular note were two filet mignons, a clear container of oysters on the middle shelf.  Further rooting around uncovered chocolate dipped strawberries and a bottle of sparkling cider plus an 187 mL bottle of champagne. Definitely plans for a romantic dinner in Sherrinford’s not so distant past. The sticker on the steaks indicated they were purchased the day Sherrinford was killed.

Going through a few more drawers, John found an apron with the initials “NRT” on it – those were the same initials of Sherrinford’s would be romeo. An apron with Sherrinford’s initials was also in the drawer but it was toward the back and in pristine condition. NRT’s, was on the top and had numerous stains that were obviously far too stubborn for standard cleaning.  Perhaps Sherrinford wasn’t the resident cook, but NRT was? Interesting.

The final task was the rubbish bin.  All John can see when he opens the bin are wrappers from crisps, chocolates, and other fast food.  Poking around a bit more he finds what appears to be a letter torn into tiny pieces and a couple broken wine glasses and plates.  Lover’s quarrel? Perhaps a lover’s quarrel that turned to murder?  Oh…

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” John makes his way toward the back of the cottage where Sherlock is searching the bed and bathroom.

“No need to shout, John, the cottage is rather small. What did you find? Evidence of a quarrel I suppose?”

“Quite right – a lover’s spat from the look of it in the kitchen, and thwarted plans for a romantic dinner for two if the contents of the fridge are any indication.”

“I guessed as much. Sherrinford clearly kept his relationship with Nathan – I found a card signed with his name – quite hidden until now. According to his calendar in his office, his siblings were due to be away from the plantation for at least 4 days around the time of his murder. Tilda, of course permanently absent in America, but Freya and Constance were out of town.”

“How did you know about the quarrel?”

“I found an interesting residue in the stool and discovered it was from something being burned. Further investigation led me to very small fragments of photos – several of them from the looks of it as the backgrounds are different. There was also some ash residue on the bottom of the liner for the trash can – it looks like either Sherrinford or Nathan had a bit of  bonfire with some old photos and tried to get rid of the evidence by flushing it. “

“The meat in the fridge was purchased the day of Sherrinford’s death – crime of passion?”

“Unlikely, but someone went to great lengths to lead us to that conclusion. And using a knife from the kitchen and planting it back here at the cottage makes it look like Sherrinford was murdered by his lover, but I don’t think that’s the case. I think the argument was conveniently timed and the murderer took advantage.”

Sherlock pivots to face John and moves closer to him. He looks down at John from under those long lashes and says, “Don’t think there isn’t part of me that wishes we could make better use of our time alone without Reginald looking over our shoulders John, but I suspect our tour guide is likely getting a bit impatient with us.”

John looks directly at Sherlock, “What did you have in mind Sherlock?” John’s pulse races.  Just then Sherlock looks toward the door to the bedroom and both men hear a solid knock and the opening of the cottage front door.

“Mr. Holmes? Doctor Watson? How are things shaping up? Ready to move on?”

“Later John, this will have to do for now,” and he swiftly kisses John and rather firmly grabs his arse with one hand, winks at him and moves through the doorframe. John just chuckles and wonders if this will be the same Sherlock he gets tonight when they are alone.

“Find anything of interest you two? You’ve been in here long enough to uncover all of Sherrinford’s secrets I dare say,” Reginald intones with a chortle. “Perhaps you’d like to see where they found Sherrinford’s body next? The fields are just through the back of the cottage.”

“Certainly Reginald. But one question, where is Sherrinford’s mobile? He did have one I assume? There’s also no computer here at the cottage. Neither John nor I found either.”

“Oh,” he clears his throat, “I suppose I didn’t mention it, Sherrinford never had a computer here – he, uh, didn’t like to take work home and always said if he needed something work related he’d simply walk to his office. Right out the back door here gentleman, watch your step down.”

Following behind Reginald’s stout slow moving figure, Sherlock and John leave the cottage. Sherlock motions to John quietly and pulls something out of his pocket.

“He’s lying John – this,” Sherlock pulls a small black plastic case from his pocket, “is an external hard drive adapter for a  laptop. It was in a drawer in the bedroom nightstand. There is a folding laptop desk between the bed and nightstand and from the look of it it has seen a lot of use. The outlet behind the nightstand has 3 outlets plus a usb plug-in. He worked from home, I’m certain of it.” He loudly adds so Reginald can hear, “How much further?”

“Not much further now, just in that clearing you can see up ahead. Afraid the authorities made a right mess of the place after his body was found.” Reginald mops his ruddy sweat drenched face and collar with a handkerchief from his pocket. “Think we might all be due for a spot of something to drink after we’re done out here in the heat. Nothing like the island heat to make you thirsty.”

The sugar cane fields behind the cottages are tall and windswept, the vibrant green of the stalks almost blinding in their brightness. The shoots are at least three meters tall, and the men are completely hidden as they follow a narrow path further into the thickness of the crop. The perfect place for a murder, Sherlock thinks, making sure that the path they are on will be easily retraceable. He desperately wishes that Reginald weren’t with them right now, because John wearing shorts is entirely too enticing an image. Reginald is leading the way, yammering on about rainfall, annual yields, and the distillation process, and Sherlock wants nothing more than to chuck this entire case, tackle John to the ground, and pick up where they left off on the beach last night. Jesus, he thinks to himself, John has released a monster.

They reach the crime scene within a minute or two, but there is little there to provide any useful information. The dirt has absorbed any biological evidence, and the police have done a spectacular job of trampling anything within twenty meters of the spot Sherrinford was killed. Still, Sherlock and John do their best to survey the area, looking for any overlooked evidence. They are about to give up when John calls Sherlock over to a sugar cane stalk bent nearly in half.

“Look here, Sherlock. There’s a bit of blood on these leaves, it must have splattered in this direction when the murderer slit Sherrinford’s throat.”

Sherlock leans in close, looking at the splatter stains, then moves on to the next stalk. “Brilliant, John, look here, there’s more.”

“More blood?”

“No, more evidence. There, half way up, do you see it?” Sherlock leans into John and places his hand on his shoulder. He puts his mouth against John’s ear and whispers, “Pretend you see something, reach to grab it, and put it in your pocket. I want Reginald to think we’ve found something that he and his people have missed.” John does as instructed, and the two men move back to where Reginald waits, an anxious look on his face.

“Find something interesting, boys?”

“Oh, just a little thing, nothing to worry yourself over, Mr. Marsh,” Sherlock chuckles, giving the man his best fake smile. “You can leave that to us. Right, so I think we’re done here. Shall we head back to The House for lunch and a break? We can hit the distillery and distribution center later in the afternoon.”

Reginald looks at them warily for a moment, but quickly switches back to helpful tour guide mode. “Absolutely, boys. I’ll have my car bring you back to the resort, but I won’t be able to join you for lunch. I’ve got… um… just a bit of business to attend to. Shall I fetch you at about two o’clock, or would you like more time to rest?”

“Let’s say three o’clock, shall we,” John answers. “We have to be in touch with our colleagues back in London, and make a few other phone calls.”

“Three it is,” Reginald puffs as they make their way back to the cottages, then further on to the main compound. The car is waiting, and John and Sherlock climb in, grateful for the air conditioning. Once the car is moving Sherlock turns to John and says, “I don’t think we actually need to call … oh.”

John winks at the unusually obtuse detective, looks out his window, and puts his hand on the man’s knee. “We’re on vacation, Sherlock. At least, I am. I’m having cocktails with lunch, going to the pool, and taking a nap. Care to join me?”

“Well, when you put it that way, yes to lunch, yes to the pool, and I don’t nap. But I could be persuaded to get in bed with you while you nap.” John squeezes Sherlock’s knee.

 


	8. In which Sherlock is a BAMF and John goes for a swim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So very sorry for the long delay - life got in the way!

Back at The House the boys head to their suite to change into bathing suits. They both stop in their tracks when they swing the door open and realize that their two twin beds have been swapped for one, enormous king. “What on earth?” John mutters, completely at a loss for the change.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growls. “We’re being watched. At the beach, in the car, at the compound. This means that Reginald is feeding information back to Mycroft.”

John lets out a giggle, and is soon in complete hysterics. “Oh, god… Sherlock… this is just too… rich.” He wipes his eyes and puts his hand on Sherlock’s arm, then goes on. “This must be what Reginald meant on the phone when he said he’d make the call as soon as he hung up. He was on the phone with Mycroft this morning when we were in Sherrinford’s office. The little fecker.”

“Which begs the question, John, are we here to solve a murder, or to … be manipulated?”

“Oh, who cares. Come here.” John goes to the bed and lays back on it, stretching his arms up above his head. Sherlock is slow to follow, his outside bravado quickly fading as he adjusts to this new reality of being alone with John, in this room, with that bed. “I won’t bite, Sherlock. Not yet, anyway.”

Sherlock gives John a shy smile and walks over the bed, sitting down primly on the edge. John reaches up and runs his fingers up and down the man’s back, enjoying even this little bit of intimacy. Slowly, Sherlock relaxes into John’s touch, then lays back on the bed next to John. He reaches down and grabs John’s hand, then raises it to his lips and kisses their intertwined fingers.

“You are adorable,” John smiles over at him.

“I am not adorable. I am fucking gorgeous, a veritable stud of a man.”

“Yes, that, too. Shall we go get lunch and take a swim?”

“In a moment.” Sherlock leans up on one elbow and smiles down at John, then leans over and kisses him tenderly on the mouth. John kisses him back, reaching up to grab a fistful of those curls, pulling him in even closer.

Their kiss deepens, tongues intertwining, a gentle give and take of affection with underlying sparks, that if left to smolder much longer will surely burst into passionate flames. Sherlock, not used to such waves of emotions, feels like he’s standing tiptoe at the edge of a precipice. John’s hand is tugging gently on his hair, and that coupled with John’s wickedly delicious lips and mouth moving expertly against his own is pushing Sherlock into territory he’s never experienced. The heat, good god, is coursing everywhere. Every synapse is focused on John. Sherlock can almost hear his body humming John’s name. His skin tingles, John’s tugging on his hair resonates in his pelvis, John’s lips and mouth flood him with a heady rush that is leaving him breathless. Sherlock closes his eyes and absorbs the moment getting swept away in the honeyed hum of John’s name coursing through his body. Caught up in the heady rush of passion that John’s awakened, Sherlock deepens their kiss and the sparks start to flare to life. John reacts to the fire Sherlock is igniting between them and moans passionately.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he pulls away from John abruptly. John’s hand falls from his hair and Sherlock flops down on his back alongside John. John breathes in deeply. Sherlock is wide eyed and breathing in short breaths.

“Are you okay Sherlock?  Did I hurt you somehow? The hair - guess I did get a bit carried away there.”

Having had time to catch a few gulps of air Sherlock is feeling more composed and more in control of himself – the humming in his blood finally calming to just a brief echo of John’s name with every heartbeat. He rolls to face John, running his hand through John’s hair and sighs deeply.

“You will be my undoing John Watson.”

John murmurs - almost purrs under Sherlock’s touch, “Good thing or bad thing?”

“Good, quite good – magnificent, actually. I’ve never felt so connected to another person. Never has my body responded so completely to anyone, ever. I could quite lose myself in you – in us, I think.” Sherlock gazes at John intently as he trails his fingers along the side of John’s face and down to his collarbone. This man, his one true friend, has somehow turned his world upside down. He’s breached Sherlock’s every defense and for some reason, some inexplicable reason, Sherlock has let him. Sherlock shakes his head and lays back down on his back and laughs.

“Feeling a bit giddy are you? Tell me you’re actually enjoying yourself for once Sherlock – that you’re actually really enjoying yourself. I’m going to get ready for lunch.” John starts to crawl over Sherlock’s prone body – noticing yet again that Sherlock is a very good looking man, even more so when he’s aroused - when Sherlock reaches up grasps John and pulls him across his body so he’s sitting astride Sherlock’s pelvis. The heat John feels resting on Sherlock is making his blood boil. Sherlock grinds himself against John ever so gently.

“I think my enjoyment of our previous activities is quite obvious don’t you John? And it’s you I’m enjoying, yes?” John is finding it hard to stay composed and he splays his hands on Sherlock’s chest feeling his heart on the verge of racing. Such control Sherlock has now, but earlier earlier John knew he was out of control and that was the biggest turn on of all.

“Now that I’ve made my point rather clear,” hands on John’s hips, Sherlock rocks their bodies together and listens to the hitch in John’s breathing basking in his clear enjoyment of Sherlock’s actions, “let’s go get that lunch and swim before we lose ourselves shall we?”

“Uhm. Lunch? Swim? Would rather nap…with you,” John mumbles clearly caught up in the moment and rather enjoying himself..

“Come John, oof, bad choice of words for now anyway – really we should eat and cool off before we meet with Sherrinford this afternoon.”

John thinks to himself, there he is in full control again - my Sherlock. My Sherlock. And John quite liked the sound of that in his head. His revelry is interrupted by Sherlock’s continued talking and discontinued grinding. Bummer that.

“I need some time to mull over Mycroft’s overshadowing interest in this case. I feel like there is something bigger going on and Mycroft has a large part in the show.” And with that he gently eases out from underneath John, gives him a swift kiss on the lips and starts getting ready to leave the room.

“Sherlock?”

“John?”

“Promise me we’ll make out more later, yeah?”

“Is that what we were doing? Making out?” Sherlock tries the words on for size, then blushes, feeling like the sixteen-year-old he never really was.

“Yes. That’s precisely what we were doing. I quite like it.” John practically slides off the bed, looking relaxed and raw and so, so seductive, then saunters into the bathroom.

Sherlock is staring after him with his mouth hanging open when his phone pings, so he mentally makes a note to tell -- no, to show  -- John exactly how much he likes making out later, then pulls his phone out of his pocket.

_How goes it, brother mine? MH_

_You know exactly how it’s going, you interfering, controlling, manipulative cock. SH_

_That well? I am surprised. MH_

_What are you up to? SH_

_Whatever on earth are you referring to? I am simply enquiring about the progress you’ve made so far with the Sherrinford Whitlock case. MH_

_And what else? SH_

_And what else, what? MH_

_I hate you. Always have. Always will. SH_

_And John? Do you hate John, too? MH_

_How is your diet going? SH_

_I hope you enjoy your new sleeping arrangements. Had I known things would have progressed so quickly I would have started with the larger bed from the start. MH_

Sherlock’s blood is roaring through his veins now, his lips pulled back in an unconscious snarl as he reads his brother’s last text. He wants to scratch it right off the screen with his nails, but settles for hurling the phone across the room, where it hits the padded headboard of the bed and bounces back onto the duvet. The phone pings once more, but Sherlock ignores it.

Padded headboard... Sherlock, concentrate! he tells himself. Pull it together, now.

John wanders absentmindedly out of the bathroom wearing a pair of the newly procured bathing trunks, a fresh T-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops. He’s got a towel tossed over his shoulder, and a pair of sunglasses resting on the top of his head. Sherlock thinks he looks absolutely adorable, and just like that, Sherlock’s anger toward his brother is gone. Adorable.

“Right. So what are you staring at?”

“You. You are adorable.”

“I am hardly adorable, Sherlock. I invaded Afghanistan, you know.”

“And I bet you were absolutely adorable in your cute little fatigues.”

“My cute little … oh, you are asking for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I think I am. But you’re right - lunch and pool, yes?”

“Yes. I’m ravenous. I could eat a very large consulting detective right now.”

Sherlock giggles, that deep, throaty, full-face smile giggle of his, and John feels a little shiver run up his spine. This, all of this, is this really happening? It appears that it is. “Go on then, get changed. Meet me by the pool, we can eat there.”

Sherlock watches John leave the suite, feeling more affectionate toward him than he’s ever felt for anything in his life, except maybe for Redbeard, and retrieves his phone from the bed. He gives it a cursory glance before heading to the armoire to find his own bathing gear, and shakes his head in amusement.

_Do be careful, and trust that all will be well. MH_

Sherlock shakes his head in annoyance and tosses the phone back on the bed, not wanting to be further disturbed by Mycroft.

John finds two chaise lounge in a semi-private corner of the swimming pool’s deck and flops down on the thick, plush cushions. This is the life, the fucking life, he muses, looking out over the gentle waves of the bay, the intensity of the blue above him, the luxurious pampering of The House itself. He wants to never leave. London is a lifetime away, a drizzly, cold lifetime. A lifetime without Sherlock in his bed.

And with that thought, Sherlock appears, looking embarrassed and awkward in his long crimson swimming trunks, floppy hat, and long-sleeved swim shirt. “Um, don’t want to, you know, burn. Fair skin and all,” he mutters in John’s general direction.

“Indeed. You are practically glowing with your complete lack of skin pigmentation. Come here, sit in the shade.”

“Have you ordered yet?

“Just a bottle of Perrier and some nibbles. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“You look it.”

“Too thin?”

“Too bloody perfect, Sherlock. Here, look at the menu.”

Within a few minutes the waiter from last night’s dinner appears, balancing the bottle of water, two glasses, a small bowl of nuts and pretzels on a tray. He takes their order and disappears again, practically genuflecting as he goes.

“John, I’ve been thinking about this whole Sherrinford thing. Like I said before, I think that there’s more going on here than meets the eye.”

John raises an eyebrow at him, silently encouraging him to continue.

“Why are we here? Why did Mycroft insist that I work on this case, and why was he so sure that I would refuse outright if he asked me directly? Mycroft’s power reaches the world over, but this is the murder of a relatively unimportant man on a relatively unimportant island. He has no partner, no children, and three siblings that he rarely sees. Surely the officials here would be able to handle this?”

“So what are you thinking, then? A personal connection of some sort?”

“Exactly. Mycroft is overly invested in this crime, or in Sherrinford himself. Why?”

“Sherlock, let me ask you something. How would you go about investigating Mycroft? Deducing his habits must be second nature, something you do without even realizing it, but what do you know about his personal life? He seems extremely protective of his privacy, perhaps even more so than you.”

Sherlock considers the question for a moment, flexing his toes in the bit of sun reaching them and sipping his bubbly water. He’s not sure he’s given Mycroft this much thought before, as so much of his effort, where his brother is concerned, is focused on pushing the prat away. He’s spent so much time defending himself against Mycroft that he’s never stopped to consider Mycroft’s personal life, beyond his love of cake.

“I can’t say I know much more than you, John. He leads a monastic existence, is extremely busy, often up to no good. He has less of a relationship with our parents than I do, spends his free time at the Diogenes Club where the members aren’t allowed to bloody speak, and has never dated or been otherwise involved as far as I have been able to deduce. He’s quite the enigma, that one.”

“But you agree that his involvement in this case smacks of something personal in nature, something important to him?”

“Absolutely.”

“And he’s never mentioned Barbados, Mount Gay Rum or this Sherrinford character – not even in passing I assume?”

“I’m certain I would have recalled if he had – we don’t speak much other than mutual insults.  His latest text was odd, even for Mycroft. Usually he’s curt and emotionally aseptic. He said ‘do be careful and trust that all will be well.’ What do you make of it, John? Why wouldn’t all be well?”

John turns slightly away from Sherlock’s gaze and starts rolling the words around in his mouth, mumbling them just under his breathe. He was clearly deep in thought. Sherlock was on the other hand, very much engaged in studying John.

The slight furrow in John’s brow, the barely perceptible movements of his jaw and lips as he mouthed the words over and over trying to pull the tendrils of meaning from between the lines mesmerized Sherlock. He’d always liked watching John think but now there was added dimension of attraction and sensuality that he hadn’t previously acknowledged or been consciously aware of, utterly fascinating all the ripples of ramification his involvement with John was causing.

Sherlock turned away as he sensed the waiter’s approach with their meals. He was glad to have a moment to compose his thoughts and focus on the task at hand.

“Sirs, I hope I’m not interrupting,” the waiter says as he gently sets their meals down on the adjacent table. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, no, thank you, though.” John moved toward the table where Sherlock had tucked right into his salad and was eating with more gusto than John had ever witnessed.

“So I think it is clear Mycroft knows something – something that is clearly a personal matter that affects you somehow. I know he worries about you but he’s not typically one to reassure you. He’s clearly aware of something amiss that we haven’t discovered yet, but what? And it is something he expects to upset you.”

“Mycroft is predominantly devoid of emotion, in the rare cases I’ve seen him have an emotional reaction it seems to involve those he is closest to, his immediate family. I simply can’t find a line from Barbados to London much less from Sherrinford to Mycroft and certainly not to myself. Or you. And I certainly can’t figure out what he knows that I would find unsettling. I do think someone we’re in touch with knows something...”

John snaps his head up from his plate and cuts off Sherlock, “Reginald – of course! Our good friend who is quite handy at feeding Mycroft regular updates. Surely he knows something.”

“The trick is to get Reginald to tell us what he knows, John. Our Reginald is somewhat of a glutton and he does enjoy his drink – what’s say we plan on treating our friend to a lavish dinner and drink tonight and see what he tells us. In vino et veritas as they say, and I do suspect that Reginald is the type to get loose in the lips when he’s had enough drink. Surely as quiet as it is around here he’s bursting to tell someone what he knows.”

“Right. At the very least we might encourage him to tell us what Mycroft is keeping us away from, yes? What about the murder of Sherrinford, Sherlock any ideas”? John pushes his chair back and returns to his lounge chair where he deposits his shoes and his card key to their room. He stretches languorously and makes his way toward Sherlock’s chair.

“You can’t honestly expect me to form a well thought out answer now can you? It was much easier when you weren’t making a show of your naked chest and those shorts weren’t so obviously hanging on to your hips for dear life. Honestly John, you are quite the show-off when you know someone is watching.”

“I think you need to focus the energy you put into reading my body language into our work on the Sherrinford case, Mr. Consulting Detective don’t you?” And with that John deposits a quick kiss on Sherlock’s brow and ruffles his mussed curls. Just as Sherlock reaches out to pull him in closer, John quickly dashes to the edge of pool and dives in.

Moments later John surfaces and swims to the edge closest to Sherlock’s chair. John tosses his head back and runs his hands through his soaked hair, water running off his torso onto the deck around the pool. His face is lit up and Sherlock smiles in return.

“I do think this trip is agreeing with you John. I rarely see you so content.”

“It is quite a luxury – aside from the murder and Mycroft being a cagey twit – but do you really think it’s just the trip that is, as you put it, ‘agreeing with me’ Sherlock? You might wish to consider your role in my contentment. Now are you going to drag your porcelain arse and the rest of your lovely body into this pool with me or shall I have to wait to see you drenched in another setting at a later time? Like a shower perhaps?”

Sherlock’s gaze never shifts from John’s as he pushes back his chair, lays down his hat, removes his shoes and deposits his key to their room on the table. He takes measured steps toward John who is smiling with bemusement.

Sherlock crouches down in front of John who lifts his face to look at Sherlock. Sherlock puts his hand under John’s chin and stares at John with eyes blazing with desire. John’s breath falters and his heartbeat hitches.

“Don’t make promises unless you plan to fulfill them, John. I’m not a particularly patient man and I definitely don’t like to be kept waiting.” Sherlock’s voice is low and deep and laden with a passion he himself is just beginning to understand.

A very nervous waiter approaches the two men and clears his throat, “Ahem, sirs?” It’s clear to him he’s interrupted something quite intimate.

Sherlock doesn’t look up, keeping his gaze trained on John, but John, ever the affable one says, “Yes? What can we do for you?”

“A Mycroft Holmes is on the resort phone for you. He’d like to speak to you immediately, sir. There is an extension just inside the lobby.”

“Oh, for god’s sakes,” Sherlock mutters. “His timing is bloody excruciating.”

“Go take the call. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Sherlock puts his shoes back on and storms into the lobby, scanning the open space for the telephone. He sees it tucked away in a small space near an expansive sofa, so he crosses the room, throws himself down on the couch like a pouting child, and picks up the extension. “Is berating me by text not good enough for you now, Mycroft? What do you want?”

“Ah, Sherlock, I can tell you’re enjoying yourself by the acid dripping off that tongue of yours. Truly, I am only trying to help.”

“Then cut to the chase. I have a wet army doctor to go snog. He’s in the pool, Mycroft.”

“Oh my. That is, dear brother, what I do believe they call ‘too much information,’ hmm?”

“Give me a reason to stop talking then, Mycroft, or I shall start describing in great detail how his tongue tastes when I -- “

“STOP. For the love of god, Sherlock, enough. You win. I was going to tell you anyway, so just...keep your pants on.” Mycroft giggles at his little joke, a sound that makes Sherlock hold the phone away from his ear and look at it as if had just spiked horns.

“Go on, then.”

“There is a new development in the Sherrinford Whitlock case, something I think you may find interesting.”

“I’m waiting, Mycroft.”

“Whitlock’s last testament and will is ready for probate. Reginald Marsh should have the final paperwork this afternoon. I do think that you should discuss this with him as soon as possible.”

“Fine. Perhaps Sherrinford’s will can shed some light on this god-awful boring murder case.”

“Sherlock, since when has solving a murder been ‘god awful boring’ to you?”

“Since I’ve found other things to focus on.”

“I see. Have you heard what I said about the will?”

“Yes. Although I doubt the family members will want me to sit in on that dreadful business. Perhaps Reginald can slip me a copy after the whole thing is done.”

“Sherlock. Talk to Reginald.”

“Yes, you said that, Mycroft. You’re beginning to repeat yourself in your old age.”

“Say hello to John for me.”

“I will not. He’s mine.” Sherlock slams down the phone, ignoring the looks of the other guests in the lobby, and saunters out to the pool. John has finished swimming and is reclining in the sun now, his arms folded behind his head, a satisfied grin on his face. Goddamn Mycroft for making him miss John in the pool.

“Get back in the pool, John.”

“No. I’m done with the pool. I want to lay out in the sun, get a bit of color. What did Mycroft say?”

“He said to get back in the pool.”

“You bloody liar.”

“Please. Please get back in the pool, John. Please.”

John sits up and peers at Sherlock over the top of his aviators. “Dear me. Are you having a tantrum? Come over here. We’ll have plenty more time for the pool later.” John pats the cushion he’s sitting on and scooches over to made room for Sherlock.

“There’s not room for us both.”

“Are you pouting? Are you seriously pouting? Come here, I’ll make room.”

After a bit of negotiating and rearranging, John and Sherlock are side by side on the cushioned chair, one grinning, the other pouting. Slowly, Sherlock sulks himself onto his side, his head resting on John’s bare chest, one arm flung up and over John’s shoulder, one leg flung over his legs. John doesn’t know whether to laugh or yell at the overgrown child clinging to him.

“Sherlock, be a good boy and I’ll take you swimming later,” he whispers into the shiny curls splayed across his collarbone.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, trying to reground himself as he swings from annoyance at Mycroft to neediness with John. What the hell is happening to me? he wonders for the tenth time in less than twenty-four hours.

“John, everything is so different now. Yesterday you drugged me and I woke up on a plane, and then we landed and had dinner and went for a walk on the beach, and now look at us.”

“You okay with everything?”

“The emotions are a bit distracting, and unexpectedly inconsistent. I’m either ready to tear you limb from limb, or panicking that you’re going to change your mind and flee. It’s hard to go from years of blocking everything to feeling so much. It’s discombobulating.”

“Ha. Well, yes, that’s one word for it. But you’re … overall, okay?”

“Yes. Definitely. Together, right? We’re together. You’re not having second thoughts?”

“Sherlock, look at me, love. It may have taken me a while to get here, to realize what you mean to me and what I want, but I’m not going back now. I can’t. Together, yeah?”

Sherlock wraps himself even tighter around John and traces his fingers up and down John’s arm. “Together. You just try to get rid of me now.”

“I think I’d rather like to keep you, if that’s alright with you.”

“It’s more than alright. What time is it?”

“Almost two-thirty. We need to clean up and head back to Mount Joy.”

“Mmm. In a minute. And remind me later that I need to talk to Reginald Marsh about the will.”

“What about it?”

“Mycroft said it’s ready for probate, hinted that I need to be involved. It may be helpful in terms of finding a motivated killer, but surely Marsh can fill us in on the details over dinner.”

John secretly wishes that Reginald Marsh and the entire Whitlock clan would just shrivel up and blow away, so that he and Sherlock could just lie here forever, but after a few more minutes of what he can only call ‘snuggling,’ he nudges Sherlock’s leg with his knee and tells him time’s up -- time to get back on the job.

“Ugh. Let’s wrap this up as quickly as possible, shall we, John? We’ll visit the distribution center and distillery, talk with some of Sherrinford’s direct reports, and get whatever we can from Reginald regarding the will. Hopefully we’ll find something extremely useful and put this dull case to bed.”

“You said bed.”

“God, I’m glad I’m not the only one here acting like a complete git,” Sherlock says, trying not to grin from ear-to-ear and failing spectacularly.

Sherlock untangles his lanky frame from John’s.  For a man who’s constantly in motion he’s finding that being wrapped up in John is a far more enjoyable pastime.

“Come on Sherlock, we really don’t want to be late to meet Reginald, yeah? “

“Fine. It’s really not fine, but I suppose the sooner we get done with Reginald the sooner we have some bloody well deserved privacy.”  He shouts the bit at the end assuming – correctly – that Mycroft is somehow listening in.

John snickers, as both men pick up with shoes and pocket their card keys and head back into the resort. As they head through the doors and past the lobby, John shifts his shoes to his left hand and moves closer to Sherlock putting his arm around the taller man’s waist. Sherlock grins, puts his arms around John’s shoulder and pulls him closer.

When they get to their room John faces the door and starts to root around in his pocket for the card key.

“Let me get the door John.”

“Right, sure.” John starts to move away from the door, but Sherlock puts a hand on John’s shoulder to stop him and dips down to whisper in his ear.

“No need to move John.” He deposits a kiss right behind John’s ear as his hand trails down John’s shoulder to his side and down to his hip. Hand on John’s hip Sherlock pulls their bodies close together. “This pocket or the other one John,” Sherlock whispers.

“This one…I….” Sherlock kisses him again on the neck and John can feel his heartbeat begin to race and his mind go utterly blank as Sherlock’s hand slowly dips just a tad further down his hip, then ever so slowly, trailing heat in his fingertips, Sherlock’s hand curves around the front of John’s hip and finds the pocket.

Torture. Exquisite torture. Sherlock’s slow moving hand and fingertips that feel like liquid heat.  The sound of Sherlock’s own ragged breath in his ear, Sherlock’s lips pressed against his neck right below ear where John knows Sherlock can feel his pulse beating beneath his lips.  The length of Sherlock’s body smolders against John’s back everywhere they are touching.  Christ – John thinks – I’m going to go up like a bloody tinder box if this keeps up.

That hand moves so slowly into the pocket savoring every move deeper and further across John’s hip. His fingertips graze what can only be the card key and Sherlock is quite disappointed that this was actually the correct pocket. He slowly takes it out of John’s pocket and gives him a quick nip on the neck, and still pressed against John’s back slides the key into door.

He speaks softly, “Opening a door has never been so enjoyable John. I really should open doors for you more often.” The door clicks and with his hand on John’s hip, Sherlock nudges them both forward and into their room.

John turns to face Sherlock and says, “I know we need to meet with Reginald, solving a crime and all that, but just so you know there are things involving you, your body and a significant lack of clothes for the both of us that I’d much rather be exploring, okay? Oh, and I think I may have you open doors for me much more frequently if that’s how you mean to go about it.” John pads softly to their room, looks wistfully at the bed and sighs. He starts getting dressed to meet with Reginald.

Sherlock grins like a love-struck school boy while he John’s receding figure. Half-naked John is a very delectable John in his opinion. He will make Mycroft pay for the poor timing of his call that meant Sherlock missed joining John in the pool. He wanders into their room and starts getting ready to leave.

The room phone rings. John picks it up.

“Hello?”

“Doctor Watson, there’s a car waiting for you and Mr. Holmes out front.”

“We’ll be right there. Thank you.” He hangs up the phone and finishes buttoning his shirt.  Sherlock is dressed and unabashedly staring at John.

“I don’t know how you do it Sherlock, but you make me feel like buttoning up my shirt is incredibly lewd. I do believe we’ve unleashed some sort of crazed version of you. Come on, let’s go see Reginald and get the rest of the bloody tours done, wrap up the business with the will and make plans to play this scene in reverse later, yeah?”

“Fine. But damn it John, I’m less than pleased with your state of dressed-ness right now. I missed your swim thanks to Mycroft’s inscrutably asinine need to call at precisely the most inopportune time and now we have to go deal with Reginald and his insufferable jollity.”

Sherlock face turns into a scowl and he makes his way to their door acting quite like a sullen toddler. John grins at Sherlock’s posture and is as ever tickled that Sherlock could be so brilliant and still so childlike.

As the door closed behind them and they made their way to the car awaiting them. Reginald is outside the car gesturing wildly and talking into his phone.  

“Looks like we caught Mycroft mid-instruction. John, go get Reginald’s attention.”

Reginald is so engrossed in his conversation that he doesn’t see John and Sherlock until John taps him on the shoulder. Before he has time to greet John, Sherlock grabs Reginald’s phone and starts talking to the caller.

“Hello, Mycroft. Care to tell me what you were saying that has poor Mr. Marsh here so worked up?”

Sherlock lets Mycroft stutter into the phone for exactly two seconds before tossing it back to a speechless Reginald. He has nothing left to say to his interfering older brother, and the sooner Reginald hangs up, the better. Reginald does hang up, after a very quick and awkward goodbye, and the three men approach the waiting car.

"Right, so, um, sorry about that, then, very unexpected..."

"Do shut up, Reginald," Sherlock barks at the man.

"What Sherlock means, Reginald, is --"

"Exactly what I said. Shut. Up. Now, listen to me closely. Are you listening? I cannot fathom that the Barbados officials could be so incompetent as to require my assistance on such a pedestrian murder case. Furthermore, I have no idea what you and Mycroft are cooking up behind the scenes, or why the two of you buffoons are inclined to discuss the minute details of this non-case every two minutes. I do not know, nor do I care to know, why my sleeping arrangements are anyone's concern but mine and John's. I am bored to death by all of this, BORED, and am going to give you exactly one minute to tell me why the hell I should sit in on the probate meeting that you have magically scheduled out of the complete blue. Not one more second of work will be done to identify Sherrinford Whitlock's murderer until I know exactly what the hell is going on here. Do you understand me, Mr. Marsh? Do you need to contact that arse of a brother of mine again, or are you ready to proceed?"

Reginald is paralyzed.

John is not. "Jesus, that was hot, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiles, encircles John's wrist with his fingers, and whispers, "Remind me to thoroughly chastise you later tonight."

"Thoroughly."

Reginald takes a small step back, his face red and beading with sweat. He wipes a handkerchief across his brow and clears his throat before beginning. His first words come out in a croak, so he tries again.

"Hmmm. Right. So, then. May I ask what Mycroft has told you so far? Just so I know where to start?"

"You know exactly what he's told me and what he has not, you moron. Step away from the car. We are not going anywhere until we've had this conversation. Talk."

John looks at Sherlock in pure delight, loving every minute of Reginald's slap down, and the air of complete control that Sherlock has adopted once again. But, come to think of it, John realizes, there really isn't any bit of Sherlock, shy, pouting, angry, commanding, or otherwise, that John isn't completely besotted with at this point.

Reginald tries again. "Sherlock, are you sure that you have never had previous contact with any of the Whitlock family? At all? Ever?"

"I am absolutely positive. I would remember."

"It's true, he would, he remembers everything," John adds, sounding like a proud boyfriend.

"I see. Most peculiar. Because it seems he knew you, or of you, at least.”

"So help me god, Marsh," Sherlock growls, looking dangerously close to doing something violently illegal to the already cowering lawyer, "What the hell are you... Never mind. You are completely and utterly useless." Without another word he pulls out his phone, taps a few buttons, and waits. The call goes through almost immediately.

"What the hell is going on here Mycroft? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Then get your ass down here and explain it, because I am not doing a single bit of work on this case until I have all the information required. Every single bit. Have I made myself clear? No. That is not going to happen. How soon can you be here? That's not soon enough. Be here by tomorrow morning or John and I are going to lock ourselves in that bloody opulent suite you arranged for us and ... Yes. Tomorrow morning. And Mycroft? Don't you dare call me again between now and then unless it's to tell me what you think you can't tell me on the phone."

He ends the call, grabs John's hand, and turns on his heel, tossing Reginald a gruff "good day," over his shoulder. Reginald stands, staring after them, but they don't turn back and are soon in the resort and out of sight. His phone rings and without looking he knows that it's Mycroft, and knows that he's about to get another bollocking. God, this job.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"Bed. Now.”

 


	9. Velvet Lined Boxes, for Cataloguing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys make it happen, together.

It takes them less than a minute to get back to their suite, neither of them speaking. John has the key card out as they approach the door, and Sherlock, impatient to get inside, still fired up from his excruciatingly frustrating exchanges with Reginald and his meddling brother, is on him, breathing down his neck, running his hands over the smaller man's shoulders and neck. "Open. This. Door. Now."

"Trying... I'm trying. Jesus." John can't concentrate, is fumbling with the card, and when he feels Sherlock's mouth on his neck just below his ear he stops trying altogether.

"You taste like linen right here. Linen and peaches. Open the door."

"Can't... stop for a sec... can't focus..."

Sherlock runs his hand around John's waist, down his forearm - god, John's forearms are spectacular - and over his hand. With unerring control, his tongue now gently licking John's earlobe, he slips the card into the slot, and the door panel whirs and flashes green. Still pressed up against John, he pushes the handle down, opens the door, and nudges them inside.

John turns to face him, meeting his lips as he raises his head, and entwines all ten desperate fingers in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock keeps walking them backwards, never breaking the kiss, through the sitting area, and across the threshold of the bedroom, until the backs of John's knees hit the edge of the bed and they fall, together, onto it.

Sherlock stops kissing John, looks down at him, and says, "John, there's something that I need to do."

"I'm pretty sure I'm going to be okay with whatever it is."

"You're going to think it a bit odd of me."

"I already think you're a bit odd."

"Good. I need to catalogue you."

"Ah. And how does that work, exactly?"

Sherlock rolls to the side, propped up on one elbow, and starts unbuttoning John's shirt with his other hand. "You already have a room in my mind palace, filled with all sorts of data about you: your likes, dislikes, speech patterns, facial expressions, important facts about your life... all sorts of data."

"I see. For how long?"

"Since we met. I have files on everyone I meet, you know that. Of course, your room has grown significantly, especially in the last day. Exceedingly so."

"How has it grown?"

Sherlock finishes the unbuttoning and pulls the shirt tails out of John's shorts, then begins to run his fingers up and down the midline of the army doctor's torso.

"The rooms in my mind palace are all different, each suited to their own purpose, but they all have similarities. They all have files for summaries of information and images, drawers for collections of related subsets of data, sometimes doors that lead to other connections. There are pictures, photographs, collages in flat files; hanging rods for maps, newspapers, articles. And then there are glass vials and jars for other things."

John turns to his side and begins to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, although his fingers aren't quite as steady as the detective's seemed to be. "What goes in the vials and jars, then?"

Sherlock reaches a hand around John's back, grazing his fingertips up and down the soft, warm skin running from the back of John's neck to the base of his spine. "Smells and tastes."

"You need to catalogue the way I smell and taste?"

"Yes. I already have some information, of course."

"Of course," John says, his expression saying, 'how silly of me'.

"Your mouth, your tongue, your hair... Your hair smells like shampoo, obviously, but under that there's a layer of something almost sweet and milky, like almond. Your neck, right under your ear..."

"Peach and linen?"

"Yes." Sherlock leans closer and kisses John softly. "Your mouth...honey. Honey made from clover and lavender."

John sighs and runs a finger across Sherlock's jaw. "What else do you need in that room, then? What are you collecting?"

"I need everything. All of you."

"Mmm. I see. Then I guess you'd better start, yeah?"

Sherlock rolls back on top of John and rubs his nose and the tip of his tongue along his temple, down his cheek, under his chin, and to his sternum. "Silk, from white mulberry, and… oh… linen, walnut, apricot. You are delicious."

"Em, thank you?" John has never been catalogued before, never been explored so intricately, and it's intoxicating.

Sherlock moves to John's shoulder, nudges into his armpit ("stop giggling"), down the front of his arm to the velvety inside of his elbow. He spends a long time on John's forearm, licking the thick veins that run down the curved surface, joining under the tender flesh of his inner wrist. "Paper, pine, a bit of apple." He licks John's palm, runs his tongue down John's index finger, and slowly draws it into his mouth up to the first knuckle. John inhales sharply and let's out a long, low moan.

"You are... obscene in your thoroughness, Sherlock."

"Oh, John," Sherlock murmurs into his wrist, "I haven't even started."

"You're going to need a bigger room."

"You are absolutely correct." He kisses John's hand again, then lowers himself further, his chin resting on John's navel. From there he looks up and smiles, one side of his mouth raised in a slight smirk, and asks, "All good?"

"Fuck yes."

Sherlock tugs the waist of John's shorts down a bit, rubs his nose against his hip, over his lower abdomen, and to the other hip. "So lovely. God, you are lovely. Felt, nutmeg, buttermilk."

"You make me sound..."

"Downright edible."

Sherlock leans to one side, rests on one elbow and tugs John's shorts down and off, then throws them unceremoniously across the room.

"You're done with those, I assume?"

"They were in the way. These are, too. Can I take them off?"

John sighs, tilts his head back, and lifts one arm up to cover his eyes. "You, too, then, okay? Together."

Sherlock kneels next to John, and when John uncovers his eyes and looks up into Sherlock's face he sees such a look of utter adoration that he is rendered temporarily mute. Sherlock cups his face in one long, graceful hand, trails his fingers down his neck, and answers, "Yes, together." He slips his shirt off, rolls it into to a ball, and throws it over to meet John's. He stands up by the side of the bed and undoes his shorts and starts to slip them down, then stops, hooks his fingers in both his shorts and briefs and takes them off in one fluid motion.

John's face goes soft, his lips just barely parted, his breath quickening. Sherlock stays still and watches John's eyes take him in, top to bottom, once, twice, three times. Sherlock is used to being perceived as attractive, but the longing and admiration in John's eyes go right through him, and he shivers and closes his eyes, looking for a very special box, walnut with a blue-grey, velvet lining, in which to store that gaze.

"You are fucking marvelous. You are a fucking disaster of a treasure, and I don't deserve anything as perfect as you. Sherlock, look at me." John reaches out and takes Sherlock's hand in his own, pulling him back onto the bed. "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Do you understand? I would be lost without you, even without the you that you were to me when we got on that plane, when you were the you that you were yesterday. But now? God help me, Sherlock, I don't think I could ever go back."

"Together, John. We're moving forward, together." He slips his fingers into the sides of John's boxers and pulls them down, so, so slowly, until they're off and in the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. Then he sits back and just stares, blinking, collecting and storing away these intimate images of his John, and he understands exactly what John meant.

"You're my best thing, too, John. My very best thing."

"How's the cataloging going? More to do?"

"God, yes."

"Back to it, then."

Sherlock shifts back down the bed and lowers himself over John's hips, then follows the crease from his upper thigh to his groin. He's mumbling textures, flavors, smells, but John isn't listening anymore. He's only aware of his own heartbeat and the racing of his breath. When he feels Sherlock burrow his nose and mouth into his inner thigh he almost laughs, the sensation is so overwhelmingly, agonizingly intoxicating. He reaches down and rakes Sherlock's curls with his fingers. Sherlock's mouth is everywhere but where John would most, most like it, but he waits, ever so patiently, knowing how worth it this will be. If, he thinks, he lives through it.

"Is this okay?"

"God yes."

"I'm going to... I need to..."

"Sherlock. Please."

Sherlock lowers his mouth to John and swipes his tongue over the tip of him, a bead of wet already waiting. John is about to disappear into a black hole, completely lost to anything in the universe except the feeling of Sherlock's tongue, and then his lips, and then his whole mouth.

Sherlock stops, kisses the base of him, and says, "John? I've just moved your room. You're now at the top of the double staircase, through a set of elaborate, carved doors, with a view through an expansive space, to a sweeping veranda. Do you know what I can see from the veranda John? Everything. Everything in my world. Your world. Our world. I have a view of our everything from there."

He lowers his head again and continues where he left off, this cataloging session almost done, the drawers and files and doors ready to be closed. There's only one thing left, and John is such a willing participant right now, so eager, so trusting and open, and Sherlock is so distracted by the sounds John is making, so uninhibited and pleading, so decadent, and John is moving with such abandon now, and is pulling Sherlock's hair so hard, that when he finally let's go and loses control, Sherlock is so stunned, he almost forgets to remember.

But he does remember, and he files it quickly before losing an iota of detail in an elaborate volume bound in leather with creamy thick pages made of linen. Scents and textures that evoke the very essence of John. The sound of John’s voice calling his name in those final moments, his voice deep and edged in lust, was unlike anything Sherlock had ever heard.

John’s hands in his hair had been gentle at first and as John lost himself in Sherlock’s ministrations, almost as if they were pleading, begging for Sherlock to give John the release he so desired and when he had, when John had reached the edge of that peak and tumbled down that precipice, Sherlock almost toppled over with him. This man, his man – John – had managed to completely overwhelm Sherlock’s senses. Rather than the sharp images Sherlock was usually able to file away, that moment was flashes of movement, sensations of John’s hands grasping his hair his strong fingers gentle yet unabashedly demanding, John’s hips – god his perfect hips – warm, moving to a rhythm playing just for their audience of two.

Sherlock was completely wrapped into the music of John’s body toward the end unable to discern clear images at all, just getting flickers of motions – hips, hands, his own mouth and tongue. There was heat all red and orange flaring into flames, fine beads of sweat across John’s pelvis and on Sherlock’s brow, and the sounds of John’s voice lacing through it all tying it all into a symphony that lasted only a few moments that Sherlock was certain never to forget. Violin later, he thought.

Sherlock moves gently up alongside John’s torso, and whispers in his ear. “Cedar, grey sea salt, touch of cloves. You are without a doubt John, the most deliciously complex person I have ever catalogued.”

John, who’s taken the last few minutes to recover from what was the most erotic experience he has ever had rolls over to face Sherlock.  Blue-grey eyes, soft around the edges and lit with an expression John has never seen gaze back at him. John gathers his wits for a moment more under Sherlock’s gaze, and without a word he runs his hand into Sherlock’s hair which is totally disheveled and damp with perspiration and leans in close to Sherlock.

“Cataloguing done?”

“Done for the moment, John, yes.” There’s softness in Sherlock’s eyes, a tenderness that threatens to sweep John away. He pulls himself into Sherlock, and with a half groan and half moan places his mouth on Sherlock’s. The kiss makes no pretense at being delicate – John is demanding now, his lips and tongue imploring, his heart thundering in his chest. Sherlock having only glimpsed this John ever so briefly the previous night, is so completely caught off guard that he moans into John’s mouth. It’s the only encouragement John needs.

He disengages from Sherlock’s mouth and looks down into the eyes that are no longer soft around the edges, but look eager, hungry. They search John’s face impatiently, imploring him to act. Sherlock’s breath is ragged and that is what spurs John forward; the controller has yielded his control. John removes his hand from Sherlock’s hair and runs it down across his lover’s lips, those lips inviting and a touch swollen from their kisses are open just enough for John to hear Sherlock’s breathing and the ever so slight hitch that gives him away.

“Shh,” John says pressing his finger gently against Sherlock’s mouth. He wants Sherlock to surrender to his control now to take what John’s about to do without argument. “Let me take care of you Sherlock, no words, just let me.”

Sherlock nods imperceptibly. His mind, usually orderly and precise, is a riot now. Pulse hammering and his body humming with anticipation. He’s unused to being out of control, there’s a hint of hesitation in his frame – a slight tautness that John sees and senses.

“Together Sherlock, just trust me, trust this – trust us.” Without words, Sherlock grasps John’s palm and gently places a kiss there acknowledging and allowing.

John gently nudges Sherlock onto his back, his body laid out before John who’s trying to take him all in. He’s an utterly perfect male specimen, all porcelain skin and defined musculature.  John could gaze in wonder at him for hours and he will, eventually, but with all the blood in his veins singing and crying out to touch, feel and taste now is a time for acting. John runs his hand from Sherlock’s cheek down the hollow of his neck to his collarbone. He kisses along the butterfly wings of the collarbone and down to Sherlock’s chest as his hand runs just ahead, playing over Sherlock’s ribs.

Lips following his hands, and John trails kisses down that milky rib cage and can feel the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest and hear the rapid beat of his heart. He moves lower slowly, carefully. He pauses for just a second, hand resting on the dip of Sherlock’s hip, lips poised to follow his hands and gazes up at Sherlock. He just needs the smallest of sign to make sure. Sherlock meets John’s eye. His gaze is intense but barely focused. John senses Sherlock is struggling to maintain control – teetering there - part of him wanting to be in control but willing himself to let John. Sherlock takes a deep breath and ever so slightly nudges his hip upward against John’s hand willing him to continue.

John’s hand moves firmly and gently inward across Sherlock’s pelvis. Skin moving from warm to hot, fine beads of perspiration appearing now. His lips move deftly from Sherlock’s navel across to his hip, tongue tasting the slight salty tang of perspiration, and underneath the warm silk of Sherlock’s skin. His hand gently makes its way across his upper thigh and he gently runs his palm along the length of Sherlock.

Sherlock moans and moves his pelvis upward toward John’s hand. John continues to caress Sherlock firmly and gently while he places a short trail of kisses from his hip toward his hand. Thumb over the tip and lips poised to follow, John feels Sherlock’s hand run through his hair. John looks up briefly, Sherlock’s eyes are wild, his chest moving up and down rapidly, his hips gently urging John forward. He opens his lips.

“John…please…please.”

John lowers his mouth and put his lips around Sherlock. Both men groan as Sherlock’s hips move upward and John’s mouth moves downward in perfect unison. Sherlock’s one hand in his hair, his other grasping the sheets as he looks for something, anything, to keep him grounded. The sensations, the heat, John…his John…he mouths John’s name silently as he creeps closer and closer to his undoing.

John is in control but lost in his senses, lost in the moment and the urgency he can sense in Sherlock’s body, the slight holding back, then the lunging forward. His mouth urges Sherlock on gently at first, teasingly and then Sherlock is saying his name over and over – quietly at first then more loudly, begging him.

That completely unravels John. He’s flooded with memories of earlier, of calling out Sherlock’s name and he feels his heart hammer harder in his chest. Sherlock calls out his name between gasping breaths now, his body moving urgently beneath John’s mouth and hand. John matches his movements to Sherlock’s now frenzied pace. Everything blurs -- light, color, bodies, and heat all combined into the same symphony, the instruments changing placing rising toward the final crescendo.

“John,” Sherlock calls out with one final shout and he tumbles completely outside of himself and over the edge. Tension mounts and breaks and there is only calm - total release of every fiber, every synapse - of everything. His body relaxes, his eyes close, and his breath gasps.

John slowly comes back to his senses. He looks at Sherlock now – totally transfixed to see him so relaxed. Every muscle at ease, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, light sheen of perspiration covering him in dew. He moves gently, slowly, to lie alongside Sherlock and rests his head on Sherlock’s chest, his ear just over Sherlock’s heart. Sherlock, aware of John’s closeness pulls him in more tightly against him. He lays his arm across John’s back and shoulder.

The beating of Sherlock’s heart, the sounds of his breath, the warmth of his body - before either of them can whisper a word John drifts gently off to sleep.  

Sherlock's blood is pounding through his veins, every sense heightened yet sated, his breath still coming in gasps. He is trying to understand what just happened to his body and mind, what John reduced him to, raised him to, how he was able to rip him apart and put him back together like that. He wants to sort it all, but for now it's enough to shove it all in a box and label it "Unbearable Bliss" before tossing it under the bed in his mind palace, because of course, now, there must be a bed for John.

He gently strokes John's back as the older man's breath evens out and steadies. He's only asleep, he thinks to himself, and yet I miss him. He's tempted to wake John up so that he's not alone, but that wouldn't be fair. Sherlock is going to be fair to John, he's going to be good. He lets John sleep, going through John's room in his mind palace, reviewing his most precious files. He reviews the day he met John, and then the next night at Angelo's when he tricked John into losing his cane. He thinks about the cases they've been on. He spends a lot of time thinking about that very first case, when John killed another man to save Sherlock's life. They'd only known each other one day. Sherlock knew then that John was very, very special, but he had taken it for granted, and used it to his advantage. Sherlock is going to be better now. He is going to better to John. His John. Within minutes he's asleep, John cradled against him, the drawers and doors of John's room still open.

 


End file.
